


Drive Slow

by OkayAristotle



Series: Compatible Differences [3]
Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Blood As Lube, Co-Parenting Fish, Developing Relationship, Dysfunctional Relationships, Enemies to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Masochism, Meeting the Parents, No Plot/Plotless, POV Slade Wilson, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Top Clark Kent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24814525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: The one where Slade Wilson adopts a fish, confronts some uncomfortable feelings, and accidentally falls in love. Or something.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Slade Wilson
Series: Compatible Differences [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766782
Comments: 115
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, back at it again. This time with help from the wonderful Discord chat and also my roommate, whomst I have corrupted. 
> 
> With a plot so thin you could breathe a hole through it, and more porn than you can shake a stick at, and some eventual domestic fluff, let's just say I'm in deep with this dumb ship. Without further ado, ignore all those pesky typos and mistakes, I refuse to look at them any longer.

Sunlight's an awful thing. It pokes him in his sleep, claws its way behind Slade's gritty eye. If he were a less prideful man, he'd just give in and buy a sleep mask. Not that he'd have brought it with him anyway, when there had been no _plan_ to fall unconscious where he is currently. 

He could feign sleep. Wait Clark out. Completely ignore the sunlight battering him from the opened curtains, an ungodly strain on his mental faculties. Making a break for said window feels a little too much like _running_ , which, no. 

He's not going to run. Deathstroke does not run. Unless it's advantageous. 

"You gonna make me ask again? You want some coffee?" 

Slade grunts. For good measure, he drags a pillow over his head and curls onto his side. He's fucking _tired_ , fucked half out of his mind with the bruises to prove it. Let a man _sleep_. 

Clark sighs. "Whatever. Coffee's in the kitchen." The bedroom door is shut quietly, but it still rings through Slade's ears far too loudly. Fucking enhancements. 

"Fuck off," Slade mutters. From the hallway, muffled only slightly, Clark laughs, the bastard. 

Most mornings, Slade is fine.

Most mornings, he's exactly where he'd planned to sleep, and most people know not to bother him at— Slade squints, shifting the pillow to eyeball the alarm clock. _Eight._ Awful. The only person to ever survive bothering him out of sleep at this time, after being tenderised like meat, is Wintergreen. Once upon a time, the boys when they were young on the occasional Christmas morning.

Clark's lucky he's invulnerable and good with his cock. 

He takes another twenty minutes to himself and then slides from the ruined bed, aware of the dried blood and come across his skin. His shower last night had been pretty futile, in the end. They'd kept going until even Clark looked a little out of it, and that's when Slade had made the unfortunate decision to rest his sight for a moment. 

Next thing he knows, he's staying the night. They'd thrown the comforter off, too warm with the two of them in bed and Slade all too happy to bask in the silence, the bedroom window cracked open an inch to air things out.

Slade sets the shower to scalding, grabs Clark's soap and scrubs down with irritation. The bite marks have closed over, leaving nothing but purple-yellow bruises from his jaw to his ribs. He makes the mistake of scrubbing the back of his thigh and regrets it immediately, gritting his teeth. 

Climbing out the window is going to be pretty fucking hard today. 

While in the shower, he takes stock once the grime is washed away, the water at his feet tinged pink. The bruises are extensive and deep. After the first round Clark had laid it on again, and again, all of Slade's muscles overworked. Oddly methodical in how he'd struck and grabbed and hurt, a rhythm that kept Slade cranked most of the night.

His throat is a little better than last time, at least. Most of it is concentrated lower, Clark's mouth all but permanently attached to his shoulder. When he wasn't biting and sucking marks into his skin there, it was his _thighs,_ and fuck if that hadn't made Slade come quicker than he could think.

He prods a particularly defined bite at the crease of his thigh, two more right beneath it, barely visible under the discoloured marks. Abruptly, Slade flicks the shower off, cold settling in quickly as he drips onto the tiled floor.

Leaving now, unnoticed, is all but impossible. Daylight, for one. And his suit is still in the living room. He untangles his hair with stiff fingers, still dripping water as he makes his way to the bathroom cabinet, rooting around until he's sure there's no spare razors about. 

Slade scratches his jaw, considering for a second just using one of his knives, before he leaves it be. Nobody except Clark is going to see him, anyway. He dries off quickly, a little surprised to find the bedroom's changed in the five minutes since he left. 

Sheets are gone, for one. Worst of the mess is done away with, too. On the bed, laid out on a clean corner, is a set of clothes. Just sweatpants and a t-shirt that's seen better days, but it still stops him short for a second. He'd taken the boxers last time without thinking, but this is a little different; _Kansas Royals_ on the t-shirt and a little hole near the waistband of the sweats. Clark's clothes. Clark's well-worn clothes.

Slade's mouth twists as he gets dressed, a little annoyed at the implication. 

With nothing left to do, he heads for the kitchen, passing by the living room coffee table with a raised eyebrow. His gear's been moved. 

"Morning." Clark greets, an eyebrow cocked. Steam drifts from his cup of coffee, Clark's eyes flicking across clothes. "Glad they fit." 

"Barely." Slade snorts. It's pretty hard to find anything that fits exactly right, unless it's tailored. Tall people problems, he supposes. Clark steps aside, letting Slade mess with the coffee machine until it's filling up a chipped little mug, dumping sweetener in after. "Where's my stuff?" 

"Moved it. The couple across the street are kind of nosy. Didn't want them seeing it through the blinds." He shrugs, bringing the mug to his mouth and hesitating. "You okay?" 

Slade freezes for just a second, then continues stirring his coffee. "Why wouldn't I be?" 

"You look like you got hit by a truck, for one." He says lightly. Nevermind that it was a truck named _Clark._ "And I think your eyebrows are waging war on each other." 

Slade snorts, then forces his expression to smooth out. "You an expert on me, now?" It's too early in the morning to be arguing, or pulling any weapons. He lifts his own mug high, taking a few scalding mouthfuls. "Whatever you think this is, this isn't it. I did not fall asleep lovingly in your arms, I fell _unconscious."_

"Never said you did." He shrugs a shoulder, amusement on the corner of his mouth. Little shit.

"Your face did." Slade replies, entirely aware he sounds like a five year old. "I'm fine, and you don't need to ask me if I'm not." 

Clark rests a hip against the counter. "Real mature." 

He grunts, throwing the spoon into the sink with wonderful aim, and then picks his way over to the couch. Turns the television up to just bearable at this time of morning, a little disgruntled by the sun glaring over the screen through the half-drawn blinds.

Clark joins him to save his laptop when Slade sets his mug on top of it, a soft glare on his features. Much to Slade's surprise, he gets on the couch too, lotus-style, flipping the laptop open. 

He boots it up, but doesn't do much more than that, quiet beside him. The click-clack of keys is slow. Distracted, or possibly thoughtful. Except he's on Slade's blind side, so there's no chance to see what he's up to. He's long become accustomed to the impairment, but at times like this he really hates how well it blocks his base instinct to peek into other people's business. 

All in all, he's kind of surprised. He'd half expected to be dragged out of bed and forced out the door, rather than offered coffee and clothes with minimal fuss. Then again, it is _Superman._ He'd probably have Slade stay the whole day, out of sheer politeness. 

Slade knows he wouldn't be half as kind. 

He drinks his coffee in silence, let's Clark get on with whatever he's doing, and catches up on the local news. A house fire that turned into a whole block fire, still smouldering by morning. International relations with Kahndaq are crumbling, no surprise there — which seems to be the only thing that drags Clark's attention. Probably his jurisdiction. The new wing added to the Metropolis National Museum, some kid making a full recovery at Metropolis General, and other assorted feel-good stories to start your day.

He turns it off when it gets to the weather — highs of 77 for the next few days, perfect for running around in the sweat-trap Ikon suit — and Clark's finished his coffee. Not bad coffee, but not what Slade would go for if given the chance, too bitter. 

"What're you doing?" Slade rolls his eye when the silence drags on for painful seconds. "I don't give a fuck what goes in your city. No current contracts." He elaborates. 

"We agreed not to discuss work." Clark replies. He taps a few more keys. "That includes my day job. I cover politics, Slade. World events." 

"Whatever dirt you've got isn't as good as mine." Slade shoots back, which is probably true. Smear campaigns could be done in his sleep, for God's sake. "Just making conversation." 

_"Why?"_ Clark huffs. Slade turns at that, just to see the tight set of his jaw, the strain in his throat. Slowly, he raises his cup, taking a sip as he lets Clark's tone sink in. 

"Get your panties out of a twist." Slade states. "If we're fucking, what, we do it in silence?" He's not desperate for chit-chat. But that look in Clark's eyes feels like an insult, entirely distrustful. Slade barks a laugh. "I trust you not to break my damn bones, and you can't even tell me what kitten got saved from a tree this week? Yeah, fuck you, too." 

Clark's mouth twists, clearly displeased. "Slade—" He huffs.

Slade puts Clark back in his damn blind spot, and considers searching for his gear. Doesn't take a genius to figure out Superman's top secret hiding spot. The closet in the hallway may as well have a neon sign above it. 'Course, then he _really_ would look like a five year old, making a hasty — if angry — retreat. 

"Let's just not talk, yeah? I drink my shit coffee. You email your mother." 

Clark makes a noise like he wants to argue, then thinks better of it. "My coffee's fine." 

"You're hardly a paragon of human opinion, Clark." Slade murmurs, a little more viciously than probably necessary. 

"You're one to talk. Last I checked, humans didn't come with synthetically enhanced bones and tissue density, but here we are." 

"Touché." Clark closes the laptop, placing it to the side, then stretches his legs out. After a second, one foot knocks into Slade's, smoothing over his irritation. That alone just makes him irritated; Clark's innate power to de-escalate at the drop of a hat.

It's too fucking early to be arguing, anyway. Probably why he feels so prickly, he's _tired._ Every muscle aches, even just sitting. And his _ass._

"You hungry?" Clark murmurs. Sinks down a little more, slouched into his couch and looking awfully _normal_ when Slade turns to eyeball him. 

"You cooking?" 

"Sure." He shrugs. "If you can handle my _alien tastes._ " He waggles a few fingers to punctuate his words. A smile tilts Clark's mouth, his eyes sliding to meet Slade's, a different type of hunger there for a moment, flickering away into amusement.

"I could eat." Slade replies, sips his coffee. "I like my bacon crisped, F.Y.I." 

"I'm vegetarian." Clark replies. "No meat in the house." 

Slade groans. "Not this shit." 

"What, eat vegetables? Yeah. Have some toast, Slade." He throws back, pushing off the couch to go search through the fridge. 

"Terrorist cells in Iraq offered me better." He shoots back, smirking at Clark's flat look. "Look at you. Vegetarian." 

"People can be vegetarian, Slade." 

He hums. "Yeah, most don't fuck mercenaries. Bit hypocritical there, no?"

Clark pulls a couple slices of bread out of his kitschy little bread bin, and then fiddles with the toaster. "No talking about work, right?" 

Slade twists on the couch, nearly dropping his coffee. "Doesn't mean pretending I'm not what I am." He holds his gaze, Clark's eyebrows drawn together. "Or that you're not what you are." 

"Is every good thing I do going to be overshadowed by fucking you, Slade? Will it be brought up, any chance you get?" Clark asks, his back turned to Slade now, baring the tense set of his shoulders. He shifts on his feet, rearranging the makings of a salad twice over. "Because if it is, you can leave. Or keep your mouth shut, and eat some toast." 

"Can't keep my mouth shut _and_ eat." 

"Shut up, Slade. For the love of everything." Clark murmurs, the tense line of his shoulders breaking on a laugh. Right on time, the toast pops, a nice golden brown. "Order up." He slides the dry toast to the edge of the counter on a little plate, raising an eyebrow Slade's way. 

"What happened to Midwestern manners?" Slade grumbles, setting his coffee aside. "Your mother know you treat guests like this?" 

Clark quirks an eyebrow, a little sharpness to his mouth. "You invited yourself over, Slade." He plucks a knife from the block, sending the thing through a cluster of onion, getting to work.

Well, that's true. Though he'd call it in gentler terms. He was horny, so fucking what. Slade butters his toast in silence, shoves half in his mouth and realises he's pretty damn close to starving. Sex with a Kryptonian takes endurance. 

Clark pulls a jar out of the refrigerator, some homemade concoction that he drizzles over perhaps the most rustic salad of all time, and then promptly shoves a forkful in his mouth too. "Didn't realise how hungry I was." He moans.

"I'm surprised you get hungry." Slade comments, leaning against the counter. With hair ruffled and sweatpants rolled to his knees, a smear of olive oil at the corner of his mouth, somehow he makes devouring a salad look pretty attractive.

"It's mostly habit." He shrugs. "Forgot to eat last night."

"Hey, I gave you loads to eat." Slade quirks his mouth. "Kinda literally, if you think about it."

"You sound twelve." Clark mutters. Forks more salad into his mouth, lingering in the kitchen half a foot away, pink beginning to stain his cheeks. "This is weird." He comments. Looks down to his plate, shaking his head. "Isn't this weird?" 

Slade shrugs, chewing his way through his second piece of toast. Rather than answer, he puts another two slices on, raising an eyebrow at Clark's noise. 

"I just mean," he murmurs, "this morning. Not that I— I'm not saying I don't like it, but—" 

"Let's not make this into anything more, Clark." Slade cuts in. "It's weird as fuck, yes. But I am _starving_. Eat your salad, have your crisis another time." 

"You're really grouchy." Clark comments instead. 

"I'm tired." He shrugs. "Got used to a different time zone, recently." 

"Should try keeping a schedule in space. Dark all the time, freezing cold." 

Slade snorts. "Wasn't planning to, Spaceman. And did nobody ever teach you how to use a knife, Christ." 

"What?" Clark asks, innocence to the corners of his mouth as he chews what looks like a quarter of tomato whole. 

"Can't cut for shit, that's what. It hurts just looking at your _chunks._ " He eyes the plate with disdain.

"Next time, you make breakfast, then." Clark throws back, and the air cools considerably with just that. There's an assumption there, and Slade's not sure how he feels about it. 

Right on time, his toast pops, and Clark clears off with a quiet word about finishing his emails. 

Slade finishes his toast in silence, lingering in the kitchen and wondering why _next time_ makes his stomach roll. He leaves his plate in the sink and grabs his gear and stuffs it into a duffel bag, not bothering to say goodbye before he takes the stairs down to the sidewalk. Clark doesn't try to say goodbye, either. Doesn't look away from his laptop at all, in fact. Not even when Slade snags a pair of his shoes.

It's only later that he unpacks his gear, double-checking it for any pesky trackers. Not that he thinks Clark could stay straight-faced with that, but it's the principle. He's friends with Batman, after all. He finds none, except for a little slip of paper tucked into one of the many pockets, a phone number scrawled across the front and Clark's name helpfully written over the back. As if he doesn't know who he's just fucked, or something. 

His  _ number.  _ Slade turns the paper over, not sure what the fuck he's feeling, but damn well sure it's nothing good. He tucks it into his own pocket, and then digs around the nightstand for a burner phone. No fucking way is he giving a member of the Justice League his personal line. 

Slade taps the number in, puts it under  _ Spam Caller _ , and then hesitates. In the afternoon light, after a good sandwich and shot of whiskey, he can tell that he may have reacted badly. Clark, too. He's certainly not going to apologise. He doesn't  _ owe _ one. They'd covered that already. 

Still, feels strange. Slade is not a waitress to be impressed. He is not  _ looking _ for Clark's number, like some desperate midnight call. He might not stay for breakfast, next time. 

(And fuck, if he doesn't already know there  _ will _ be a next time.) 

He pockets the phone, retrieving his personal line instead. Instead of engaging Clark's assumptions, he finally texts Joey back, a few weeks too late. 

The response, when it comes a few hours later, is less than enthusiastic. Kind of what he expected, really. But at least that feels  _ normal _ , compared to recently. Joey sends a curt,  _ run out of other things to do today? _ And ignores Slade's next text.

He sighs, lets Wintergreen know he's back in business, and goes to finally get changed into proper clothes. There's always work to be done. Familiar, dependable work. 

Much easier to navigate than whatever he's been doing recently. He should forget all about this safe house, forget all about Clark Kent. Better yet, take Luthor up on his contract again. 

He might not be able to kill Clark, but there's more to his job than plain murder. He'd be painfully easy to discredit, tear apart his papers and throw it all into question. Let the world find out on their own, exactly who he is. 

He's halfway to the airport when he discards the thoughts of slander entirely. He can practically _hear_ Billy's voice, saying something about _disproportionate_ _reactions._

He's not running. He's making a strategic retreat. 


	2. Chapter 2

The thing about Kahndaq, like much of Egypt, is that the weather is a pain. Slade sweats throughout the day in the confines of his suit, and freezes when he strips down to boxers for the nights. No amount of showering helps, and the abandoned encampment he's taken for the next few days is a sun-trap.

Some parts of Kahndaq are not so bad. Beyond the bigger cities, the heat is less volatile. More of a slow burn, than a cloying press of sweat and skin. Quieter, too, and he relishes in that fact as he takes in the news cycle. 

President Muhunnad's corpse makes its way onto every screen within hours. One clean shot through his skull, and Slade hadn't stuck around to see the splatter over the reporters, or the chaos that followed. The thing about monthly, public addresses from dictators— they were as regular as a morning shit. Finding a vantage point, and a quick route out of Shiruta, had been easy enough to do with his eyes closed. 

Quick, clean. How Slade liked things, sitting a little richer in the run-down building he's set up shop in. This far out, it's nearly deathly silent, only the faint hum of vehicles passing to break up the tinny quality of the television set up in the corner.

He rolls over, one arm bunched under his head to keep an eye on his phone. Watches in silence as the Daily Planet publishes a quick run-down of events. He hadn't meant to find himself there, not really, but it had popped up second on the list, just beneath the  _ NYT,  _ and next thing he knows—

Daily Planet. Byline Clark Kent. He could almost imagine how quickly Clark would have snapped that up. Slade shifts, placing the phone face-down for a moment. The urge to say  _ something _ is nearly overwhelming, which is ridiculous. Keeping work separate is for the both of them. And what's more, Slade owes Clark exactly squat, let alone a justification. 

There's not an ounce of remorse in his bones right then, but he still finds himself plucking the phone up again. Scrabbles around on the floor until he finds his eyepatch, and then stalls.

_ What _ exactly could he say? Nothing, that's what. Except maybe a fuck you right back. Somewhere between packing up for the airport and murdering Muhannad, Slade had never texted Clark with that little number. The note is still tucked in the suit pocket, he's pretty sure. 

A blank screen greets him, Slade hovering over the keys.  _ Sorry _ wouldn't even be truthful. And anger feels a little unjustified, when Clark hadn't even mentioned  _ Deathstroke.  _ That wasn't public knowledge, but it was clear Clark knew. He could hear the beat of Slade's heart half a world away, for fucks sake. 

Slade sighs. Types quickly and hits send before he can think better of it, then tosses the phone back down. By his count, the morning in Metropolis is just getting into the swing of things. Clark is probably swamped right about now. 

Which is why it's surprising, and annoying, that his cell buzzes immediately. 

Slade's curt,  _ I take it you're not up to a fuck, then  _ is met with an equally curt,  _ Two hours. Your place. _

Slade reads it twice over before it sinks in, the words rolling around his head as he takes in the shithole he's currently residing in, decades-old bed and all. He flicks the television off for good measure, not quite sure how he feels about the assumption yet again. 

He could say no. Turn him down and leave it at that for a while, the simmering anger particularly clear from that one text. But he can't deny he's curious, too. How different it might be here, with the sand and the grit and the clinging sweat. 

Two hours from now, it'll be early evening, and most likely Clark's lunch break. Slade raises both eyebrows at the ridiculous thought — Clark clocking out for a quick trip to Egypt — and then sets about beating the shower into submission for a quick wash. 

He has a feeling he's going to need it. 

* * *

Slade chokes, an entirely unfamiliar feeling welling up; bubbling panic, lungs burnt out, his stomach heaving. Screws his eyes shut tight, feels the searing behind his lids. The grip on his hair is firm and strong, unwilling to bend for the slightest second. 

He isn't consulted on the choice to press closer, gags  _ hard _ on the cock bruising his throat, Clark's fingers dug deep into the curve of his skull. Hurts like hell. Slade gags again, throat constricting painfully, and thinks he might just throw up when he's dragged back, just to the tip, the head of Clark's cock heavy and salted on his tongue. 

It feels like punishment. Had looked like punishment, when Clark had heard enough of his talking and forced him to the ground, stone slabs hot under his knees. Slade sucks in air audibly, just enough that he can blink open his eye and adjust to the orange hue of the sky filtering through the window, the heavy muscle of Clark's thighs, still clad in the red-and-blues. 

Clark's grip twitches, a small warning, Slade inhaling deep again before he's pushed down and forced to accommodate, tongue flat and sensitised. His cock bumps the back of his throat again, Slade twisting in his grip, a muffled groan escaping. Above him, Clark grunts, rolls his hips just right, pushes forward. If he'd thought Clark was big before, he feels downright formidable now, every spare inch fit to burst. 

Clark's other hand slides under his jaw, fumbling for a second before it closes around his throat. Slade's cock  _ throbs  _ in time with Clark's gentle squeeze, the knowledge that he can  _ feel _ Slade's throat around him.

He's moved in a slow drag that pulls on his nerves and leaves him spitting drool, a thick string dripping down his chin. Clark groans, louder this time, meeting the movement of Slade's mouth with his own thrusts. Pumps into Slade's throat, only enough of a break to drag in quick breaths, just enough to keep him on the right side of conscious and fuck if that doesn't have Slade's own hands scrabbling for his pants. 

He fumbles through it with a moan, gratified when his hands find his own burning skin, tries to match his strokes to the cock down his throat. Clark rolls his hips hard, pressed in close enough that Slade can scent the sweat on Clark's skin— and hadn't that been a revelation, that Clark could sweat the same as Slade when he's worked up, the thick line of his cock prominent in his little red undies. 

Slade moans, the vibrations dragging a grunt out of Clark that sounds painful and straight from the chest. Jerks his cock in quick, unrefined motions, spreads his knees and leans into it. His vision blurs, Clark's hand jerking his head forwards with an obscene, wet noise, the pressure on his skull almost unbearable. 

Clark jerks off with his throat, fast and quick, muttered curses coming from above. Slade takes the hint and grips his own cock hard, rough and unkind when he gets himself off, a gutteral noise in his chest as he spills across his knuckles. Clark matches him, goes impossibly still and silent save for the pulse of his cock on Slade's tongue. He couldn't swallow even if he wanted to, throat full, but he  _ feels _ it when Clark comes, an intensely uncomfortable sensation. 

Just as suddenly, he's wrenched off, choking on air. Clark's hands shake when he lets go, little fluttering touches to the tips of his hair that Slade leans into. Coughs and tastes bile in the back of his throat, the metallic tang of blood at the back of his teeth. 

"Fuck." Clark mutters. The pads of his fingers touch lightly to the underside of Slade's jaw, warm spots almost soothing on the stretched ache there. 

Slade spits, noting the pink quality. "Yeah." His voice comes out hoarse, breathless, and he sucks in a few more deep breaths as he wipes at his mouth. Thick ropes of saliva smear across his forearm, across his jaw. "That's one word for it." 

Clark shifts, red rubber boots scraping on the stone floor. Slade's knees ache, but not half as much as his throat burns. "Sorry." He says, quiet. Slade nearly snorts, then thinks better of  _ that _ move, lungs still quivering. 

"Best throatfuck I've had in a while." He comments. Blinks open his eye, not quite sure when he shut it, greeted with Clark's cock still hard and dripping with saliva. Without thinking, Slade leans in, wraps his mouth around the silky head and sucks hard. 

"Fuck,  _ ah," _ Clark's hands hover for a second, then settle at his hips limply. Slade licks along the underside of his cock, soaking in the quiet now that things are cooled down, all of Clark's righteous fury evaporated. "I'm gonna go again if you don't stop." 

He turns his head, watches Clark through his lashes and presses Clark's cock into the soft side of his cheek, just a hint of teeth. 

"Slade." Clark chokes. 

He hums, pulls off with a  _ pop _ and the satisfying sight of Clark's cock twitching. "Maybe I want to go again." 

Before he has the chance, Clark grips his cock, wrings the last of the saliva from it and shakes it from his knuckles. "I'm still pissed at you." 

"Yeah, that's the point." He murmurs, a little saddened to see Clark force his erection back into his pants. He leans in again, this time with the intent of mouthing at the fabric, curious how far along he could crank Clark with just that, but he's stopped with a firm hand in his hair. 

Clark tugs, gentle but unbending, pulls Slade back until he has no choice but to meet his eyes. "A man is dead, Slade." 

"Hadn't noticed." He murmurs. "This guilt trip isn't going to work." He tucks himself back into his pants, blood cooling the longer he holds Clark's gaze. The man's an open book, for all he holds his identity in secrecy. 

He's no idiot, can see the knife-point in Clark's mind. The moment he decides if it's worth it. It's a different dilemma, when a man is dead at Slade's hands not six hours ago, and the internal war is waged across Clark's handsome features in a matter of moments. 

Easier to pretend, when they're tucked away in Clark's homely little apartment. 

The hand in his hair tightens, just a fraction. Lets go just as quickly, both hands curled into light fists.

"You could at least pretend you care." He mutters, then puts some distance between them and collapses on the bed with a huff. One red boot hangs off the edge, an incredibly defeated pose for a man who just got a  _ fantastic  _ blowjob. 

Slade does snort this time, head tilted sharply. "Would it make you feel better?" 

"Not really." Clark sighs. "Fuck." 

He wipes more spit from his face, prodding at the sore column of his throat. Both knees protest when he pushes himself up, a little unsteady for a moment before the room rights itself. He toes off one boot, then the other, kicking them to the corner of the room. 

"How long until you head back?" 

Clark grunts. Throws an arm over his eyes like that will help make this all disappear. "Half an hour." 

"More than enough time, then." He helpfully supplies. "Unless you'd like to mope some more." 

"I think it's justified." He replies. Clark peeks at him for a second, then flops his arm back down. "I'm having a crisis." 

Slade hums, and then promptly discards his shirt and pants, forcing his underwear off too. "Think you can get it up?" The answer is  _ obviously _ yes, a firm tent still in Clark's pants, and he doesn't hesitate to climb on over and tug down the fabric. 

"That's kind of the crisis." Clark mumbles. Lifts his hips to help, Slade shoving the pants down to mid-thigh and taking a gentle grip, stroking him back to full hardness. "Still into you. Even with the—" he struggles, waving a hand. 

"Dead guy." Slade supplies. Twists his hand at the tip of Clark's cock, satisfied when Clark bucks slightly. "Look, I'm not the guy for this. You want help with your moral dilemma? Go talk to your justice buddies." 

"If you think I'm telling the League about this, you really are crazy." 

Slade squeezes his cock, aware it won't do much in the way of pain. Still, it's the intention that counts. He lets go just long enough to lean over and push the cracked window open a little further, the air still too warm even with the setting sun, his hair curling at the tips with sweat. 

"Slade, I'm not fucking you here." He sighs. Slade lets his hands be batted away, fighting the urge to  _ pout. _

"You got a blowjob. What do I get out of that?" 

Clark palms his cock, then tucks it away, shoving Slade's thigh off his pants none too kindly. "You didn't seem to mind." 

"Because I  _ assumed _ I'd get something out of this." 

"Don't assume, then." Clark shoots back, no real heat to his words. Slade kind of wants to punch him, except he's bare knuckle, bare  _ everything. _

"Like you didn't, you mean?" 

Clark's hands fumble a little, then continue fastening everything back into place. He lifts his head, something dull behind his eyes. "You texted first." 

"Because you didn't have my number."

"If you must know," Clark's head hits the pillow with a muted  _ thunk _ , his hands sliding over Slade's to push them away. "That was so you didn't keep dropping in unannounced. I do have civilian friends, you know." 

"You mean your little League friends." Slade corrects. Doesn't take a genius to figure how big a security risk it is. Batman would bust a blood vessel if he knew. "In their civilian identities." 

"That, too." Clark agrees quietly. "Forget my number if it's such an issue." 

"I have a photographic memory." 

He hears something that sounds suspiciously like  _ Great Scott  _ before Clark pushes onto his elbows, his hair tousled and eyes tight. "Are you always this much of a brat?" 

Slade grins, settling further over Clark's insistent erection. "You wouldn't like me half as much if I wasn't." Clark meets him halfway on a rough kiss, Slade's teeth sinking into the forgiving skin of his bottom lip. 

Clark tilts his head, kisses back just as hot, his words muffled. "I don't like you, Slade." Despite that, he still grinds up, glorious friction between them. Both hands grip his hips tightly to press Slade down  _ hard. _ "And I said I wasn't going to fuck you  _ here. _ " 

"But elsewhere?" 

"If you text." Clark murmurs. Rolls his hips up in a maddeningly slow move. "Things are kind of busy at work, now that you've murdered a politician." 

"They'll have a new one by morning." He shrugs, laughing when Clark bites into the side of his jaw. "I hear Black Adam's interested." 

"He the one who put out the contract?" 

He doesn't actually know, but that's beside the point. A lot of people want to be at the top, and they're all willing to pay for it. "That would be telling." Slade presses in close, his mouth finding damp skin. 

"Have it your way." Clark withdraws, the bastard, a knowing smile to his mouth. "Text first." His hands slide to the bed, cool spots forming on Slade's heated skin, and he takes one slow, long look down before shifting under him. "I really should get going." 

"You could stay." He tries. Clark's mouth twists. "Worried you'll get fired? Cute." Slade sighs, climbing off all that wonderful muscle with one last look of his own. 

"I figured you of all people would understand being dedicated to your work." Clark says. 

"Sure," he digs his boots out from under his clothes, and then wanders over to rifle through his packed bags. A few more hours and he'll be on his way out of Kahndaq, everything ready to go. "But if being late from lunch is all it takes to get fired, you're obviously not very good at your job." 

"Thanks, Slade." 

"Just my humble opinion." 

Clark snorts. "Didn't ask for it." 

He dresses in silence, feeling Clark's gaze like a physical touch. Another shower would be good right about now. Even better with Clark in there too, all hot skin and wet mouth biting marks into Slade's throat, but unfortunately he has to get back to  _ pencil pushing.  _

"You can go," he adds, once he's done fastening his belt and tying his laces. "I'll text. Don't get your little red panties in a twist." 

Clark's eye-roll is damn near audible, right next to the rush of cool, dispersed air that marks his exit. 

Slade sighs, reaching for his discarded clothes. He shoves them in beside the clean stuff, still smeared with spit, and then heads into the bathroom to wash out his mouth.

Four hours later, Slade catches his flight home, and leaves it a whole entire twenty-four hours before he texts. Feels like a little, personal victory. Clark gets back to him with a short, little  _ I'm free if you are. _

He's not proud to say he suits up and heads out pretty damn quick, scaling Clark's apartment with ease. He works on autopilot, a little surprised to find the window already cracked open, all the lights on. 

He gets enough time to survey the room, noting the fish tank still chugging along and the remnants of dinner left on the coffee table before he's warmly accosted by about two-hundred pounds of muscle. 

The fact that Slade feels like a hidden mistress is soothed by Clark pressing him up against the quickly-closed window almost immediately. 

It's a greeting that's straight to the point and leaves no room for either of them to start mouthing off. Smart. Slade winds both hands into Clark's hair and tugs him closer, hikes a thigh up until Clark gets the picture and takes hold. 

"Long day?" He asks once he's given room to breathe. Clark sucks a mark under the ridge of his jaw.

"Yeah, some asshole committed murder on television." Clark murmurs, a little heat behind the nip of his teeth. Slade bares his throat and works to grind his hips forward.

"Sounds like a dick." 

Clark hums, letting Slade feel the curve of his mouth as he smiles. "Did it physically pain you to text me?" 

"Shut up." With a breathless noise, Slade finds exactly the right angle to grind into Clark's sharp hip, the perfect amount of pressure. "I feel like your secret girlfriend, sneaking around." 

"You started the sneaking first." Clark points out. His hand is bruising when he takes hold of Slade's other thigh, hiking him up and leaning back, eyes flicking over the suit.

"Like you'd go public with this." He shoots back. 

"Not in a million years." Clark agrees, neither of them willing to linger on that little fact. 

With great ease he carries Slade's bulk to the bedroom, the headboard still broken, though the rest of the room looks awfully tidy now that Clark gets prior warning. Cute. 

"You know," Slade murmurs, leaning in close to set his chin on Clark's shoulder. "You're gonna have to get better at that whole self-control thing, if you want to keep this up. I can't buy you a new headboard every time." 

Rather than answer that, Clark dumps him on the bed with an amused huff. "Clothes. Off. And shut up, before we have a repeat." 

"Yessir." He salutes flippantly, a smirk taking over at Clark's put-upon sigh. His smile only grows when Clark's deft hands find the buttons of his shirt, loosening his work tie. "What, I don't need to fight you, this time?" 

"Can if you want." Clark murmurs, unlooping the tie and kicking off his shoes. "Figured we're going to get there eventually, anyway." 

Slade unclicks the latches on his suit quickly, eager to catch up now that he's got a much nicer view than before. "It's half the fun." He murmurs, taking in the miles of tight muscle and smooth skin, Clark's shoulders rolling on a laugh. 

"For you, maybe." 

"You like it, too." He shucks off the top armor and gets to work on the bottom half, only stopping short when Clark climbs aboard and takes over. "Not often you get to, I bet." 

"Mm." 

Rather than help any more, Slade switches to putting his hands to good use, trailing his palms over the thick hair across Clark's chest, down to play with the waistband of his underwear. "You're learning." He comments, when every latch is unlocked without fuss, Clark rising just enough to tug everything off. 

"Figured it was in my best interest." The pants join the rest of their clothes, piled up unceremoniously in the corner. Clark settles back down in a warm, heavy weight, every point where they touch running hot and Slade can't help leaning in for more, grinds up into Clark's skilled touch. 

"Damn right," He mouths into Clark's collarbone, something nervous curling in his gut at how familiar this all feels already. The curve of Clark's hips under his fingers, the bunch of his biceps when he drags his nails over Slade's spine in a painful drag, just enough pressure to raise the skin. 

It should worry him, how easily Clark knows exactly where to touch to have Slade flat on his back and begging with his body. He bucks his hips up, cock hard against his stomach, already dripping precome. 

The heat that slides over the underside of his cock is shocking, Clark's tongue tracing a path along the vein there. "Shit," Slads gasps, "Fuck." 

"Want me to stop?" Clark rumbles from between his thighs. Slade tenses immediately, holding him right there. 

"I will fucking kill you, Clark." He growls. 

"I'll take that as a no, then." He murmurs, drawing Slade's focus, glad for once that the lights are on. Gives him the perfect view of Clark's tongue running along his cock, wet and red, fucking  _ fire _ along his nerves. 

Slade groans, struggling to rise up and watch. Clark's hand settles on his abdomen quicker than he can catch, pushing him back down, forcing Slade to crane his neck at an uncomfortable angle. Doesn't matter, when Clark sinks down on him, mouth hotter than a furnace with just the right amount of bite. 

"Fuck," Slade murmurs again like a broken record. Feels a little like his brain is pouring out of his dick, for all the good it's doing him. Can't stop the choked noise when Clark's teeth get a little more insistent, the sharp high notes breaking through the soft home of his mouth. 

Absently, Clark's fingers trace through the hair across his abdomen, a tantalizing light touch. 

"I am gonna come before you even—" Slade bucks up, an obscenely wet noise happening, the head of his cock bumping the back of Clark's throat. "Jesus." The fingers on his abdomen dig in, little half-crescent pricks of pain that only  _ add _ , Christ, and Slade finds himself staring at the ceiling, both hands buried into the soft strands of Clark's hair. 

It's maybe a little payback, the determination with which he fucks Clark's mouth, and irritatingly, he never chokes. Not even once. Not when Slade bucks up and holds there, grinding his way in, or when he jackhammers like his life depends on it, chasing the electric building in his nerves. Fucker. Just digs his teeth in, a sharp hint with every thrust that drives Slade's senses over the edge, an awful and dizzying mix of pleasure and too-much. 

He comes with a guttural shout, chest heaving on damp air. Clark's tongue works around his cock, flattened out and talented,  _ too fucking much _ , sucking on the tip until Slade whines, twisting away. 

Clark pulls off with a wet pop, not even out of breath. When he crawls up, settled over Slade's middle, there's come on the corner of his reddened mouth, hair still sticking on end. It just makes his cock throb. 

"You're an awful show-off, you know that?" He grumbles, leaning up the same moment Clark comes down for a filthy kiss, swapping the salted taste of his come. 

"You wouldn't like me half as much if I wasn't." Clark says into his mouth, his tongue sliding against Slade's in a move that goes straight to his cock. "You staying for breakfast?" 

"You wake me up again, I'll find a way to kill you." Slade says, only a little heat. He'd rather not repeat that awful experience.

Clark hums. "You can try." He dips back in, a trace of lips against Slade's, teasing.

He really shouldn't stick around. There's about a million good reasons not to. Instead, Slade leans in again, bites along Clark's jaw as he murmurs, "Only if you let me show you how to use a knife." 

"I'm not that bad." 

"It's painful to see." Slade says, and then doesn't say much else for the next half-hour.

They fuck facing away, for once. Clark bends him to his will quietly, his palm heavy and broad on the back of Slade's head, pressing him into the sheets. Every shout and moan is swallowed by the bed instead, leaving Slade to be free for once, as loud as he damn well pleases, and doesn't bother to hide every yelp at harsh slaps to his ass, the backs of his thighs trembling and spent.

It's a hell of a lot easier to sink into, when he can't see Clark. That much easier to let go, and feel moisture prick hotly at the edge of his vision, every breath labored. Every hit of Clark's hips is powerful, rocking him further into the sheets, strong and sure motions that give exactly what Slade needs to jerk himself off so quickly his hand cramps. 

Clark cages him in afterwards, sweat sticking them together along with the heavy weight of Clark's cock still inside him, Slade trembling all-over. He couldn't push him off, even if he wanted to, and doesn't fight when his sight becomes heavy and tired. Clark's hands grip his hips tight, angle him just right for one last grind against Slade's sweet spot before he pulls out. 

Slade grunts into the sheets, his muscles protesting when he shifts. "That all?" His jaw aches, pressed in at an awkward angle for the better part of a half-hour. 

"Got time." Clark rumbles. Rather than move away, he settles in with one leg thrown over Slade's thighs, the heavy mass of his chest trapping one shoulder. "Still early." 

Slade hums, twisting his head to get a better view of Clark's features when they're relaxed. He's never been the type to gaze lovingly into  _ anyone's _ eyes, but the shades of blue in Clark's lidded gaze are fascinating, holding his interest for a long moment.

Clark mouths at his shoulder, his tongue swiping over the sorest spots. "I'm gonna be off-planet for a while." 

Slade raises an eyebrow. 

"About a week. Just… so you know." Clark's eyes flick down, focused instead on a particular scar that Slade doesn't quite remember getting. He nips at it with his teeth. 

"Bring me back something nice." Slade replies dryly. 

"If you think I'm allowed to bring  _ trinkets _ back from space, you're wrong." Clark sighs a little, his mouth twisted into a smile. Slade shifts under him, curling both arms under the comfortable pillow at his head. 

"What Batman doesn't know." 

Clark laughs at that, a little crinkle forming on his nose. "He knows just about everything." 

"I'm sure you could sneak in the good stuff." Slade pushes. "What's he going to do, arrest you?" 

"It's about trust, Slade." Clark murmurs. Amusement lingers on his face when he settles down, an easy set to his cheeks, close enough that Slade only has to shift an inch to kiss him slowly. 

Clark matches him for pace, a slow thing that warms Slade's nerves like a gentle fireplace. He hums, tastes the remnants of salt at the back of Clark's teeth, and considers getting up to get them both showered before he thinks better of it. Clark's heavy, and warm in all the right places, and Slade finds himself letting his eye slip shut. 

"Can't break trust, if he doesn't know." He adds. Clark bites his bottom lip, holding there for a second before he lets go with a defeated sigh. 

"Not the point." 

"Agree to disagree." 


	3. Chapter 3

"Stop hacking things." Slade snaps. 

It's half eleven in the morning, and he's  _ done _ already. He needs a fucking drink. Just to be a shit, Clark hacks away at his tomato a little more. 

"I know how to cut things." 

"You know how to brute-force things, you overgrown alien." He takes the knife away before Clark can destroy his brunch any more. It's pathetic, when he knows exactly how far Clark's self-control can go. It shouldn't be this difficult. 

"Never heard you complain about that before." He shoots back, a new tone mixed in with his words. 

"Don't even try it. This is the least attractive thing you've ever done." Slade mutters. He scrapes mushed-up tomato from the chopping block, grabbing another to start fresh with. "And you're being purposefully dense." 

"I don't need you to teach me how to chop vegetables, Slade. I'm not five." 

"So prove it." He flips the knife, holding it by the blade in offering. "I'm fucking starving and you promised food." 

The knife is snatched with a huff, Clark turning to face the mess of his own making. It had gone well for a while, and that dressing in a jar  _ had _ been good when Slade had dipped a finger in, but that's not the point. Onions should not be in three-inch chunks. 

Clark had stepped out while Slade was showering to grab supplies, late enough in the day that it was nearer lunch than breakfast and so they'd mutually agreed to cook actual food. So far, Slade was regretting that decision. 

The unease in his gut didn't help any, either. The television was on, a low background noise that was far too  _ normal _ for Slade to be entirely at ease, already on his second cup of coffee, Clark putting his phone on silent when it had rung earlier.

It was all just a little too  _ comfortable.  _

Still, when Slade commits to something, he likes to see it through. This time, Clark chops through the pile at damn near lightning speed, just a flash of blade and then  _ poof _ , a pile of perfectly diced onions and tomato, little button mushrooms and bell peppers. 

He really hates superpowers, for fucks sake.

"Show-off." He murmurs, taking the knife back. "You know how to fry an egg, or do I need to hold your hand for that one, too?" 

The look he receives is withering and Slade cracks a grin in response. Clark digs out a well-loved frying pan, not quite smacking it down, then cracks a handful of eggs. "You're the one who insisted on proving my knife skills." 

"Because they're awful. My kid could do better when he was seven." Slade clicks his mouth shut, an awkward sense in his gut.  _ That _ is a step far too fucking far. 

Clark's eyes slide to his for just a second, then back to the pan. Yeah, definitely too far. 

"I need a fucking drink." He mutters. 

Clark snorts, shoving a spatula into the middle of his eggs, half-scrambling them. "It's not even noon." Evidently, he's just as desperate for a new topic. 

Slade rolls his eye, leaning into the counter. "Not like it gets me drunk, anyway."  _ God _ , he misses getting drunk. It's been well over thirty years since he could manage that, and it sounds fantastic right about now, if only to escape the stiffness in his spine. 

"Amen to that." Clark murmurs. "Me neither." 

Now  _ that _ is something, he supposes. "Never?" 

"Managed once back home. When I was younger, my powers were a little more… flighty. Come and go. It took a lot of alcohol." A small smile tips the corner of his mouth, a little lost in the memory. "More recently, there was this drink we were offered. The League, I mean. Off-planet. It's not alcoholic, but it sure did the job." 

"Did you like it?" He can't say he enjoys alcohol himself, but it's still habit by this point. Passes the time, when it needs to. Still burns his sinuses, sometimes. 

"Kinda." He mixes up the pan a little more, lowering the heat as he dumps in the vegetables, everything beginning to sizzle. "Don't remember it much." The scent alone is enough to remind Slade that it's been far too long since he ate properly, on top of the work-out from last night. 

Work-out in the morning, too, Slade woken up by Clark's mouth sucking a mark into his neck, one broad hand splayed over his stomach. 

Clark plates up once its all cooked down over identical slices of toast, and they both eat standing in the kitchen, shoulder-to-shoulder. 

"When're you going?" He asks absently, more focused on the television. Clark sighs beside him, a movement that he feels even through layers of his suit. 

"Tomorrow some time." He scoops up a mouthful, working through it before poking Slade with his fork. "You tell anyone, I throw you in the Atlantic." 

"I'm shaking in my boots." Slade mutters. "I'll call a jet if you do." Still, it's strange being privy to that sort of information. Feels like a small, if inconsequential step forward, compared to last time. 

Knowing that Superman's going gallivanting does absolutely  _ nothing _ for his work, as much as Clark is afraid it will. If he were Luthor, sure, and isn't  _ that _ a thought that requires chemical cleansing. 

"I'm staying stateside for a while." He offers just as quietly. "Some things I need to take care of here, after a quick contract. Pre-arranged, so don't have another crisis." 

"I've passed that." Clark chews thoughtfully. "Think I'm zen now." 

"Oh, good." Slade rolls his eye, fighting the urge to smile around a mouthful of overcooked, half-scrambled egg. "You're a terrible cook, by the way." 

"Be quiet, Slade." 

* * *

Over eight months ago, Clark knew who he was. What he was capable of. Where he drew the line.

And that was still true, to an extent. Murder. Human suffering. Warmongering. All things that Clark diametrically opposed.

And then  _ Slade—  _

Slade didn't care. He just liked it. Enjoyed it. Lived and breathed it, purely because he could. 

And somehow, Clark  _ still _ — He still knew what the soft inside of his mouth tasted like, still spent more nights than he's proud of buried in that dangerous body, pushing away the common sense that screams he shouldn't — not ever — do it again. He battles it in waves, but it's damn hard to ignore, sometimes. 

And somewhere out there, Slade's helping it happen. Propagating the very thing that makes Clark sick to his stomach some days. Doing it all with that grin, one pale blue eye crinkled in amusement. Or perhaps the stern set of his jaw, a certain dedication to his craft.

Of course, there's always worse. Slade has no interest in certain areas, as far as he's aware. With enough money offered up, he puts a stop to some of those things, even. 

It sounds dull even in Clark's head. A soothing balm to his bruised conscience. He should say no, next time. Should stop looking his friends in the eye, pretending they're the same, like Clark isn't waiting on the next text, the next night Slade slinks through his window like a housecat. 

The quiet hiss of the observation room's doors opening is a gentle greeting, Batman's cape whisper-silent on the polished floors. This high up, watching the world spin below, knowing that somewhere down there is Slade, it's difficult to fight off the churning in his gut. 

It's wrong. Intensely wrong, in fact. He could say it, look Bruce in those glowing, white lenses and finally  _ say it _ — "Hey," Clark murmurs. Swallows down the acid at the back of his throat, a tangled knot of barbed wire in his stomach. 

"Running late." Bruce says in greeting. In the boots and the suit, he evens out the last inch between them, shoulder-to-shoulder. Clark wonders if it's intentional. 

"Taking a last look." His mouth twists on a wry smile, taking in the veins of cities glowing brightly, melting into tiny pinpricks of light. It's always amazed him, how it all meshes together, one light leading to the next, to the next, every small apartment and sprawling mansion just the same from above. 

Bruce shifts, a little creak of leather. "Something's on your mind." 

"Maybe." Clark shrugs. "Just thinking." 

The silence drags on, a tense little thing that Bruce snaps with a put-upon sigh. When Clark looks, there's a purpling bruise at the edge of the cowl, swelling his jaw slightly. He wonders if Slade would bruise the same, how long it might linger for. "Are you going to make me ask?"

He wishes he would, if only so Clark had an excuse for spilling it out, letting the oily words fall from his mouth free and unburdened. 

That would be the good thing to do. Say it here and now, and let the rest happen as it needs to. Out of his hands. He is  _ compromised _ , to put it in Bruce's clinical terms. Slade is a risk. Clark's involvement even more so. 

He  _ should _ — and he doesn't. "I'm alright."

Bruce studies him a little more, the set of his mouth displeased. "Then get to the hangar, Clark. Green Lantern's getting antsy." Right. Clark nods, and wishes Bruce would just push for once, needle him with that detective edge that usually splits him open in a matter of seconds. 

Figures, the one time he actually wants it, Bruce holds back. 

It should be a quick mission, the worst part being the travel. Joint diplomatic venture with the Lanterns. Three days in the void of space, twenty-four hours to read over some paperwork and give their official seal of approval. Three days back. 

It does not escape his notice that they pass by the same quadrant with the cherry-esque drink that had made Clark's limbs turn warm and the inside of his mind fuzzy, slow and off-kilter. He thinks of Slade, the curve of his smile over wicked teeth, armed and armored in his kitchen not a day ago. How badly Clark had wanted to kiss him until they were both back in bed.

He leaves it be until the Watchtower is a speck of light barely competing with far-away starlight, and then clicks on his comm. Switches it to Hal, a little crackle sounding out that draws the Lantern's attention. 

The good thing about the ring, he supposes, was how easy it made this. If they had to stop to talk, Clark's pretty sure he'd throw up, glad for once that he can look ahead, taking in the blurred scenery. 

"How do you feel about a detour?" 

The streak of green beside him wavers a little, then burns brighter. "For fun or…?" 

Clark grimaces. "I don't think Batman would approve." 

Hal laughs at that, the streak of light beside him spinning tight circles. "Now  _ that _ sounds like my kind of detour." 

He feels worse by the second, his hole dug a little deeper. And when it gets out, it'll be that much worse. A larger stack of evidence against him, all those moments where he could have turned back. Those points where they'll ask  _ why _ ? and he won't have an answer.

He wishes he could speak to his mother, hear her soft lilt. Her gentle, absolving,  _ Oh, Clark. _ Listen to his father dispense a story that both fixes his dilemma and makes him laugh, regardless of how true it is. 

He wishes he knew what Slade was doing right then. If, once alone, he was having the same circular thoughts. Or if it mattered at all to him. 

As expected, the trip out is uneventful. Hal talks occasionally, asks how Clark's fish are doing, tells him of the television he's been catching up on planet-side. It's mindless, normal chatter, and passes the time with relative speed, once Clark pulls himself from his own head. 

He side-steps topics of his own life, and leaves vague answers when Hal raises an eyebrow at their pick-up six days later. It's nothing special, a burgundy-tinged liquid bottled in what would pass for glass. 

Hal picks up a bottle for himself, and holds onto Clark's for safe-keeping. 

"If you wanted to get drunk, you could have just asked." Hal comments, six hours into dead silence. "You would not believe some of the stuff the Lanterns pick up sometimes." 

"I wanted this." He replies, eyeing the loose grip Hal has on the twin bottles. "I like the taste." 

"I got sick of it, myself." He admits. "Too sweet." Hal holds the bottle to his eye-line, studying it with a half-smile. "Cover for me while I drop this back on Earth, yeah?" 

Well— he hadn't thought that far ahead. Pockets don't exactly come with the suit. He sends Hal a relieved look. "Thanks." 

He can fend off Bruce, and the rest of the League. Just another secret to add to the growing pile. He feels  _ like _ Bruce, except Bruce wouldn't be stupid enough to do this and expect it to end well. 

("You're late." Bruce had said, and yes, they were. By about seven hours. A small drop in the ocean, when talking about space travel. 

Clark had willed his heartbeat to stay even, despite Bruce not being privy to it. "Took the scenic route." 

Bruce's mouth had done that thing again, the little twist that said he knew something was up. Clark had felt nauseous, and moved on quickly.) 

All in all, he feels like warmed over garbage by the time he's done his debrief and headed home, only soothed slightly by the familiar sight of his apartment. He'd half expected Slade to be there, lounging on his couch with weapons piled high on his coffee table, scratching up the glass. 

Mrs. Hart across the hall had fed the fish, as usual. That was nice. One less thing to worry about, whenever he had to leave. It was a frustrating endeavor, being called out just to read a few documents and make sure all was well, but he understood it. Superman meant something, to some people. Having him there was necessary, even if it was just to hand-shake and read. 

Clark lingered by the tank for a second, tracing a finger over the glass. A few of the braver fish trail along, bumping into the glass. "Hey guys," he murmurs. "Missed me?" 

Because they were fish there was no reply, but it still lit something in his chest. Something that felt normal, like the Clark he used to know. 

He trails a finger over the glass again, all his little guppies and tetras trailing along like faithful followers. He liked his fish, in the same way he liked a busy afternoon street, or the Starbucks he sometimes sits and writes in. Company, without expectation. 

They're there, and they're happy, with or without him. But it's nice, sometimes, to think they like having him around too. The strange man that prods their tank and gives them a new boat every few months. It's stupid, but still brings a smile to his face. 

Said smile falls from his face in increments as his eyes catch on something else, hidden between two artificial alcoves. Hidden behind a few well-placed spider corals, sits a fish. A new fish. 

Clark stares until he's worried he might burn a hole through the little guy. 

It's a betta. Male, if his flares are anything to go by. Halfmoon, with a large display of vibrant red and metallic, shining blue. Probably stressed, dumped into an unfamiliar tank without a moments notice. 

As ridiculous as it is, only one option presents itself. "Slade." He murmurs, peering into the tank once more to make sure he  _ isn't  _ going insane after a deep-space trip. Wouldn't be the first time. 

Without thinking, Clark grabs his phone, kicks off his boots and stares some more at the fish as he listens to the dial tone. It rings, and rings, and cranks up his annoyance with each tone. 

Slade's probably staring at it. Letting it go to voicemail. They're hardly at  _ phone call _ stage yet, but frankly, he doesn't care. There is a  _ fish _ in his  _ tank _ , and it sure as Hell isn't his. 

There's a  _ click, _ followed by crackling silence. Another click, and Clark waits, and waits, not sure what's happening down the line. He realises, dimly, he's being transferred.

"I take it you're home." Slade answers, voice dropped low. 

"What the Hell do you think you're doing?" 

"Working." Comes the curt reply, still quiet. Clark rolls his eyes, waving a hand at the tank in frustrated silence. "In my defense, I had nowhere else to put it." Slade adds, as if sensing his focus.

"Why is there a betta in my tank, Slade." 

"Can you—" Slade grunts, a muted  _ thunk _ . Clark  _ could _ listen in, find him wherever he is in the world right now. But honestly, he doesn't care half that much right then. "I could have flushed it." Slade says, voice strained. The rattle of gunfire drowns out whatever else he says next. "Every time I do something  _ nice—" _ he growls.

"Why did you even  _ have _ him?" Clark huffs. The chain of events leading him here is a downright mystery, and he's too tired to unravel it on his own. Clark takes one look at the tank, and the sad little betta hiding away, before he heads for the couch and flops down. "And why bring him here."

"It's a fish," Slade throws back. "I didn't drop a kid on your doorstep. Can we do this later? I'm kind of busy."

"You snuck into my apartment." He replies, tone flat. "Put a fish in my tank. You realize how violent bettas are, right? He could have killed my whole tank." 

"Well, he didn't. And you could say thank you, by the way." 

Clark snorts. "For what?" 

"Your neighbor got taken out in an ambulance four days ago, dummy." A particularly loud explosion happens down the line, static taking over. Slade curses. "I fed the damn things." 

"What—" Clark blinks heavily, turning to eyeball the empty apartment across the hall through the walls. "Mrs. Hart is dead?" 

"How should I know? She looked a million years old." He huffs. "You're welcome, by the way." 

"That's…" he trails off, head pounding a little. Is Slade  _ always _ this difficult? Probably. Clark shuts his eyes until he sees colors pop. "Not the point. And how much time did you spend in my apartment, exactly?" 

"It was good timing, for the love of—" He bites off. "I didn't drink all your beer, or sleep in your bed. Get over it. Or all your little pets would be starving, right about now." Things over the line settle a little, the shouting dying down into something much calmer, which only sets him more on edge.

The commline is good enough to pick up the  _ plink _ of a grenade pin as it's pulled, and the scrape of boots on stone as Slade moves for cover. He kind of hates how his stomach twists a little at that, concerned. 

"Where'd you find him?" He asks, rather than voice that particular concern. 

"Some asshole had the thing in a vase." Slade murmurs. Distantly, the grenade goes off. "Figured you'd know what to do with it." 

Clark rubs his eyes, willing the urge to slam the phone down to disappear. "We are talking about this later." 

"Uh-huh." Slade mutters. "I've got to go. Nice talking." 

"Slade—" 

The line clicks into infuriating silence, and this time Clark does chuck his phone, the offending item just bouncing off his armchair harmlessly. 

Clark grips the arm of the couch tightly, careful not to break it. Calling back would be counterproductive. As would be destroying anything in his much-loved apartment. But the invasion of privacy sets him on edge in a way he hadn't expected, furious and feeling worse than ever. 

His plans for the night are shot, and that annoys him most, perhaps. Text Slade, drink some sickly sweet concoction, maybe fuck. Make breakfast, and maybe lunch, too. Pretend that Slade isn't this kind of person — fundamentally broken, to the point that he can't admit when he's done a good thing. Has to do it in a way guaranteed to piss Clark off, God forbid it just be a good thing on it's own. 

_ Every time I do something nice—  _ Yeah, after breaking into Clark's apartment. Dropping fish in his tank, and not even a message, not once. No heads up. 

He sighs, kicks his feet up and wishes he still didn't want to find out just what Slade's doing at that moment. Sticky with sweat in dry air, lightning quick reflexes he's yet to see at their full potential. Perhaps what expression Slade has, right when he pulls the pin, and how hard that might get Clark. 

And maybe, at the end of the night, when he drags himself to his bedroom and kicks the contraband bottle under his bed, he can admit that he's less pissed off at Slade and far more at himself. 

* * *

Whatever other people may call it, they have not had an  _ argument _ . It is not a lover's spat. There is nothing to be fractured there. Certainly no wound to be mended. 

Slade keeps this in mind as he shoots off a quick text and picks his way over the Metropolis skyline.  _ I'm coming over. _ Clark's apartment is on the other side, and Slade could take a car, but there's something to be said for traversing rooftops; gets his blood pumping. 

Their little chat in the middle of Bialya had been an annoyance, for sure. Another thing to take his focus away from getting in, getting out, and getting paid. He could have been less curt. 

Clark could have been less of a dick. 

It was a fish, for fucks sake. Swimming in a little violet vase no bigger than his fist, in the bedroom of some oil tycoon's daughter, nobody left to look after it once Slade was done. No skin off his back to leave it to starve, but he'd thought, perhaps, Clark might appreciate it. Always going on about his  _ fish. _

So, no. It was not an argument. And Clark could— 

_ I'm out,  _ came the reply. Coward. 

Slade stared at the message a little longer, cool air ruffling through the scales of his armor. Bull-fucking-shit. He's dialing before he thinks too much about it, not quite sure what he's going to say, every syllable drying up when the line clicks. 

He can hear Clark breathing, paused like he was expecting a tirade too. Slade shifts on the rooftop, and considers dive-bombing the dumpster below. It's where he belongs. 

"Are you pissed at me?" He finally asks, which sounds far more desperate than he'd intended. Deathstroke, scourge of  _ everyone _ , is not put-out. "Because if you are, you can just get over it." 

The line crackles, and Clark's voice is muted when he speaks. "Yeah, I'm pissed at you." 

_ "Why?"  _ So fucking what, he put a fish in the damn tank. He'd have left it to rot, if he thought it was going to cause all this ruckus. "Because it might have killed yours? I didn't  _ know that. _ " 

"If you think it's because of that, you're…" Clark trails off, finishing with a sigh. 

Somewhere below, Slade watches two men argue over a taxi, and the spilling nightlife from a string of bars. The urge to take potshots is damn near unbearable, he's so pissed off. Over  _ fish. _ Good fucking Lord. "I could have done a lot, you know?" He finally says, one hand curled loosely in his thigh holster. "Peeked at your porn collection. Read your emails. Deleted your TiVo." 

"Slade—" 

"No," he cuts in. "Shut the fuck up, actually. Pull your head out of your righteous ass for a minute, and fucking listen, alien." He waits, more on principle, until all he can hear is Clark's breathing, the background silent. "I dropped the damn fish off. I could have let it die. That would have cost me  _ no _ sleep. And I came back four times, for five minutes, to feed the damn things and make sure no one had ransacked your stupidly unlocked apartment." 

"Mrs. Hart was supposed to lock up." 

Oh for  _ fuck—  _ "Yeah, well, she got carted off with the keys, obviously." He bites the tip of his tongue, careful and slow with his next words. "If you're going to assume I'm always up to  _ no good _ , you can call it quits here, Clark. It benefits me none to rifle through your things, and assuming the worst—" 

"I get it." Clark cuts in, the defeat in his tone a little soothing. "But that doesn't mean you can just—" 

"If it were Batman, you'd have no problem—" 

"Batman wasn't murdering dozens two days ago, Slade—" 

Slade pivots on the spot, head tipped back to curse at the fucking moon for all the good it will do him. "Can you get over it? You knew this, from the start. I made it crystal fucking clear." He snaps. "I  _ told you _ , accept it or this stops right here." 

"Well, sorry, but it's a pretty big thing to step over—" He throws back, all that haughty hero bullshit that makes Slade grind his teeth. "Look, I'm  _ sorry _ , okay. I assumed the worst." 

"Yeah, you're a dick." 

"Got it." Clark huffs. "I get it." 

"And an asshole." He adds. Clark breathes through his nose, a frustrated little noise.

"And you're messed up." Clark throws back, a little less heat. "You'd have let him starve?" 

"We're not all bleeding hearts, Clark." Slade peels off the mask, inhaling cool air. He holds it, considering leaving the country. He's still pissed, but it's out now. "How's my fish." 

"It's in my tank." Clark replies, a little incredulous. 

"This argument has made it clear it's my fish." 

Clark stammers, followed by static. "He keeps hiding." 

_ "Why?"  _ He narrows his eyes. "What'd you do to it?" 

"Nothing!" Clark snaps. "You threw the poor guy in an unfamiliar tank. He's been like this for days. You didn't notice?" 

"I  _ told you _ , I was there for five minutes." 

Muffled, Clark curses. "Fine. Are you still—" 

"I'm standing over a fucking kitschy bar full of college students. Am I turning around or coming over?" He sighs. He's, frankly, too old for this shit. And a rise like that, over some stupid fish, should be a blaring klaxon. It should be a damn warning. 

It's almost embarrassing how quickly Clark can crank him up. And how difficult it is just to hang up, instead of  _ arguing,  _ because apparently that's what it is. That's where they're at, now. 

Phone numbers and lover's spats. 

"Come over," Clark murmurs, a little cooled off. "And take the stairs, I locked the window and I'm not moving." 

He moves quietly, making the leap from one building to the next on silent feet. "Why'd you lock it?" He kind of liked the window. Stairs felt far too open. 

"I was pissed at you." Clark says. The line clicks with finality, Slade hung up on, the  _ gall—  _

He takes the stairs. 

Feels like a bit of a freakshow, armed to the teeth and climbing four flights of dimly lit stairs. His sword digs into the wall, the way up is so narrow. The door, when he reaches it, is unlocked, and so Slade slips in quietly, clicking it shut. 

"You're a dick." He repeats as greeting. Rounds the corner of the entryway to find Clark splayed out on his couch, both feet hanging off the edge. "I'm telling Batman you're a dick." 

Clark cracks an eye open, the edges of his face tired and tight. "Shut up, Slade." Blue eyes track him as Slade rounds the couch, heading for the tank. 

Looks the same since last time he saw it. And hadn't that been  _ weird _ — how quiet the place had been. Incredibly tidy. None of Clark's usual touches, dishes left out until the last moment of the evening, laundry basket full. 

He finds the fish in question, lurking beneath a little alcove. Covered almost completely, it's hard to make out the deep red of its fins, but that had been the thing to catch his eye in the first place. "Looks fine to me." 

"Fish don't hide." 

"It was in a glorified cup." He murmurs. "This tank's huge." The other fish avoid it, of course, because apparently its capable of murder. He hadn't known that, but then he'd not have cared either. 

That hadn't been the point. And honestly, he just didn't want to deal with the moping, if Clark came back to an emaciated fish tank. 

"It'll warm up." He shrugs. 

"He." Clark corrects.

"It's a fish." He replies, dropping the mask still in his grip to the floor. "It doesn't care what you call it, or what you feed it. Or what lights you leave on." He picks his way over, stopping just long enough to unstrap his weapons and set them down. 

The couch creaks under their combined weight, and Clark grunts softly when he settles over his hips, leaning over to catch his eyes. 

Slade peels off each glove, and the bandoleers. "I'm low on empathy, with a high tolerance for violence." Clark's mouth twitches, a little frown at the edges. Slade traces it out with a still expression. "I'm not an idiot. I know what I am." 

"I know," Clark murmurs. "Doesn't make it any easier." 

"Not easy for me, either." He responds. "Your family values don't exactly align with mine." 

Clark swallows, tipping his head down slightly. "I know." Beneath him, he feels Clark's quiet sigh, the couch creaking again. "Got you something." 

He cocks his head, a little surprised at the turn of conversation. "Why didn't you lead with that." 

"Maybe I just wanted to argue." Clark smiles, a brittle thing. "Get off me, it's in the bedroom." 

_ Well, now. _ Slade slides off, bending at the waist slightly to usher him off. "I'm intrigued, at least. This an apology?" 

"You wish." Clark snorts. While he shuffles off, Slade steals his spot, equally oversized for the couch. Comfortable, though. He toes his boots off and rubs at the bridge of his nose, willing the pressure behind his eye to dissipate. 

War zones are less stressful than fucking Superman, and isn't that something he wished he didn't know. 

Prone on the couch gives him a wonderful view of the underside of Clark's thighs in sweatpants, the bulge of his cock prominent. Nearly distracting enough not to notice the bottle dangling from his fingers, a purple tint where it catches the light. 

He squints. "Am I supposed to be excited?" 

"You're supposed to be overjoyed." Clark mutters, setting the bottle down a little roughly. "And incredibly glad I'm willing to risk my integrity for you." 

"You shouldn't have." He murmurs, itching to examine the bottle just a little. Intrigue doesn't begin to cover it, now that he's taking it in. The cork is strange, a textureless wood-looking thing, smooth on all sides, and the bottle looks hand-crafted, a blue quality when he turns it over in his hands. "What's this?" 

Clark pushes at his feet, claiming the other side of the couch. Slade raises an eyebrow, settling his feet on his lap. "Want to get drunk?" 

_ Oh. _ He feels a little stupid, all things considered. In his defense, half his brain was still on the fish and the tangle of emotion there. Rather than prod that sore spot, he holds the bottle to the light again, smiling. "You sure this isn't an apology?" 

The hand resting over his feet pushes lightly, Clark snorting.    
  



	4. Chapter 4

He didn't think it was possible, but fuck, he was _buzzed._ Somewhere between drunk and high, on a scale from entirely sober to face-down, Slade was _fucked._

Whatever was in that bottle was _strong._ Burnt his sinuses something fierce, his eye watering. Tasted good, even if it was a little too sweet for his tastes. Something like cherry, with a more mud-like aftertaste, which surprisingly wasn't _unpleasant._

After the second glass, he'd started mixing it with root beer. Clark had laughed, and kept drinking it straight like a freak of nature. The argument from earlier felt far-away and mostly pointless by now, all of Slade's limbs like jelly when he makes to get up from the couch. A strong arm tugged him back insistently, Slade falling back with a grunt.

"This is strong," he mutters. Pretty sure he's said it twice already. Needs saying again. "Jesus, space filled with this stuff?" 

"I wish." Clark murmurs. Somehow, they've slumped into each other, their combined weight making the couch sag. His shoulder is surprisingly comfortable. "Should slow down." 

Slade hums. "You know the last time I got drunk? I was twenty." He shrugs. "Let me enjoy myself." Against him, Clark's shoulder shakes, a little jostling thing that hurts his head. "I hope I don't get a hangover." 

Clark snorts. "It gives the worst hangover." 

"Fuck." The glass in his hands has a little chip at the rim, like most of Clark's cups of choice. He's kind of clumsy. Slade traces the small ridge, considering. "Still gonna drink more." 

The arm under his head shifts, Slade shoots Clark a blurry glare, but all he does is settle it over his shoulders instead. Warm fingers find the collar of the suit, pressed in tight. Then, apropos of nothing, "What are we doing, Slade?"

Slade squints, not quite sure what to say. _Drinking,_ is the obvious choice. But he's never heard Clark's voice quite like that. Small, tired. Unsure. So entirely unlike the Clark that he's come to know in all his many, colorful sides. Sounds nothing like Superman, that strong and sure voice, or Clark when he's furious and feeling slighted, the breathless rumble when they're in bed— 

"I mean," he shrugs. "I don't know?" 

"Fair." Clark mumbles. His fingers snake a little lower, pressed above a lingering hickey from earlier in the night. It's pretty late, now, and he's fairly sure Clark's going to regret that in the morning when he needs to head off to his day job. 

"Why are you asking?" 

"Just… thinking." Clark murmurs. Pokes the hickey hard, earning a grunt from Slade. "Is this what we're going to do, forever?" 

"Bold of you to assume we'll be doing this _forever_." Its certainly a thought. His healing factor has yet to let him _age_ , so who fucking knows. Which brings his liquid thoughts to a new question. "How old are you?" 

There's a pause, like he needs to really _think_ about it, and yeah, Clark is _drunk_ if that's the case. "Thirty-three." 

"Sixty-one." Slade offers up. It's hardly a secret. He doesn't _hide_ it. But it can be a little misleading, looking at him. 

Evidently, Clark was fooled too, if the intake of breath is anything to go by. Slade pushes his side with a little force, his knuckles met by sturdy muscle. "You're _sixty?"_

"My kid is in his twenties. How old did you think I was?" When he meets Clark's eyes, there's a comically shocked expression there, still frozen. "Clark. Do you ever use your brain for more than worrying over injustices?" 

"I… hadn't really thought about it." He finally says. Scrubs a hand through his hair, a supremely distracting movement, the bunch of his bicep prominent. "You realise I know next to nothing about you, right?" 

"Not much to know." 

"Oh, yeah," he snorts. "Deathstroke for decades, and there's nothing of note there. Nothing at all. I don't even know how you started doing this." The warmth of his side briefly disappears, Clark leaning forward to snag the bottle and leaving Slade off-kilter before he returns, pouring them both another drink. "I don't even know how old you are, apparently." 

Slade raises an eyebrow. "I am an open book. Shoot." 

"I don't even know where to begin." 

"Then don't complain." 

"How many kids do you have?" 

It's a testament to the effects of the drink, soothing and warm like the glow of a fireplace, that he doesn't lock up like Fort Knox. Later, he's sure, he'll regret it, but all the reasons not to talk are fuzzy and hard to grasp the longer he mulls the question over. 

"Two." He finally says, sips his drink and lets it burn down the back of his throat. "All grown up." 

The hand at his neck stills, then resumes mindless petting. It's kind of nice. "Where were you born?" 

"Kentucky." 

Clark hums. "Kansas. Where I grew up, anyway." 

"Go Chiefs." He murmurs. "How's that work anyway?" 

Another shrug and Clark spills a little of his drink in his effort to shove it into his mouth. "I was adopted." _Embarrassed?_ It's a strange thought. He's not seen that side yet.

"Anything else?" 

Clark hums. "Think you can get it up?" He doesn't need to look to hear the amusement there, can imagine perfectly well the smirk taking over Clark's mouth, stained a little red. 

"I'm not _that_ old." Case in point: yes he can. Cherry coats his mouth when he downs the rest of his glass in two quick swallows, Slade placing the cup on the coffee table with finality. "You?" 

"I could do with some help." Clark says, not as sexy as he probably intended, but Slade can work with that, can work with Clark's hands when he's bodily dragged onto his lap, none too careful. Both those hands grip his ass with bruising intensity, Slade pushing back.

"I can think of a few things that might help." He grins, matched by Clark's. He tastes like cherry too, almost artificial in its sweetness, and Slade licks into his mouth with a hungry noise, pleased when the hands grip him tighter. 

Strong hips roll up to meet his, Clark already hard, just the right angle to meet Slade's own aching cock. He nips Clark's bottom lip, enjoys the sound he makes when Slade grinds against his abdomen. A nice sound. The kind that goes right between his thighs, Slade starting to work on the latches and buckles blindly, a little frustrated at how _difficult_ that is when impaired. 

Clark helps, but between the two of them they spend more time tangling their hands together, Clark's wandering back to his ass every few minutes. He's pretty sure he could come just from that, the bite of dull pain and the sturdy weight against his chest.

"Having trouble?" 

Slade registers the words at a glacial pace, still processing when he's unceremoniously shoved to the floor. Is still processing, in fact, his head swimming for a long moment, watching from a low angle as Clark's expression flickers into nausea. 

"Don't stop on my account." _Oh._ Slade feels a little sick, too, actually. 

"Batman." Clark says, stuttered and stammered. 

Slade does what _should_ be a smooth roll onto his knees, but feels much more like a drunken flail, and isn't that _fantastic._ Adrenaline really needs to kick in, clear out some of that damn _drink_ , Christ. "What are you doing here?" 

And he _is_ there, standing in the hall like a haughty bastard, because he went through the bedroom window when the living room one was locked. Slade kind of wants to tell him to take a hint, but that would hardly help his case. 

"Investigating." He replies, mouth twisted. "Unfortunately." 

"I can explain." _Oh, shut the fuck up._ "There is a perfectly good explanation for this." Clark swallows audibly. 

"I'm all ears." 

"Clark, shut up." Slade snaps. He does _not_ want to hear whatever lie is about to spill out of his mouth. It'll be pathetic and unbelievable, for one. For two, Slade just got dropped like a hot potato, no, _slammed_ like a hot potato, onto the floor. He might be a little pissed again. "There is no explanation other than what it looks like." 

For the longest moment, silence reigns. Bruce shifts, a little creak of leather and kevlar. "Which is?" 

"Are you that inept that you can't—" 

"Slade, shut up." Clark cuts in. Finally seems able to unglue himself from the couch, too, picking his way around Slade gingerly. "I get that this seems… bad." 

"Does it?" 

"Oh, shove it—" He snaps, rising to his full height, fully prepared to reach out for him, only stopped by Clark's firm hand on his wrist. "Your poster boy here's been fucking me for months. Let's not pretend otherwise, yeah?" 

In front of him, Clark sighs heavily, burying his face into his palm. "Can the floor just swallow me whole now? Jesus, Slade, you didn't have to say it like that." Voice muffled, he sounds exhausted, but fully sober at least. 

"I think he did." Bruce cuts in. "This is a risk." He adds, and the words are clearly for Clark, even if those white lenses stay focused on Slade with cold intensity. It should be funny, the fucking _Batman_ standing in Clark Kent's dimly lit hallway, pointed ears and Bat-belt, but all it does is feel _real_. 

Far too fucking real. He should be gone. He should be grabbing his mask and his boots and his swords and leaving, and he fucking isn't, because apparently his legs have forgotten how to work for the time being. 

"I haven't told him anything." Clark finally says, mouth working silently for a minute. "I've been careful. I'm not… we're not— it's just sex." 

"If you think he isn't using you, you're wrong, Clark." Bruce says, slow and pronounced like they're both stupid. "That's what he does." 

"The only thing I'm using him for is a fuck." Slade injects, not quite sure how he feels about the defeated slump to Clark's shoulders, barbed wire sitting in his gut and digging in harshly. 

"The most powerful man on this planet has nothing to offer you?" Bruce throws back. "Whatever it is you're after, you can just—" 

Slade waves a hand, hoping it helps elaborate his point, nearly hitting Clark's bicep. "That's the _point_. How many people do you think could—" He waves his hand again, harsher this time, not quite sure what words he even wants to say anymore, heat bubbling under his skin, everything turned on its head twice-over and it's only half past midnight. "He can bench press the Earth, for fucks sake." 

Bruce tilts his head, and Slade just knows he's staring at Clark now, as if to say _see? Using you._

"I—" Clark scrubs at his face, one hand hanging limply at his hip. "I think it's best if you go." 

"I agree." 

Bruce shifts on his boots. "He meant you." 

Much like his first words, that sentence takes a second to process. And when Slade's brain can crunch numbers in an instant, that's _bad._ It's not even the alcohol, all that's burned out. 

"Slade." Clark sighs. _Fucker._

He grits his teeth, feels like that barbed wire is about to cut clean through. Not even sure _why_ , except apparently it's time to go, acid at the back of his throat when he says, "Yeah, see you around." Or _not._

His throat feels clogged, too sickly-sweet still and he should have told Clark that he'd never liked cherries, never even come tonight. Should have called it off after the fucking fish. He feels the weight of those white lenses as he shoves his boots on, straps his swords back into place, forcibly taking his damn time. 

If Clark wants him gone, he'll do it on his own time. 

Most annoyingly, he doesn't feel Clark's gaze at all, not even when he's unlocking the window and pulling himself onto the roof. That's what he gets for fucking _heroes_ , he supposes. Always cowards. 


	5. Chapter 5

"Do I even want to know?" Billy asks, holding the door open a half-inch. Slade raises an eyebrow, pushing it a little further with his boot.

"Nothing to know." 

"You don't turn up on my doorstep for nothing, Slade." He throws back, eyebrows crunched together. "At nine o'clock." It's well beyond dark by now, the chill of the night starting to settle through his layers, and Slade is too tired to argue.

"What, I can't drop in on a friend?" He hefts the bag on his shoulder a little higher.

"Cut to it," he sighs, "who died?" 

"What?" With a little force, Slade pushes the door fully open, shouldering his way in with a narrowed eye. "Who says anyone died?" 

"Either someone died," Billy says, slow, "or you want something. Which is it." Which— fair. It's usually a contract. But that's not the _point_ , Slade setting his bags down with a mild glare. "Am I right or am I right?" 

"Wrong on both counts." It's been… a long time, since he was last here. Still looks the same. He knees open the spare bedroom, peering in to find it exactly as he left it. "I'll be staying for a while." 

"You could _ask_ ," his friend sighs. "What am I saying? Of course you won't ask. You'd burst into flames if you tried." Despite the words, Slade can hear the warmth under there, mixed potently with amusement.

"Christ." He mutters. "Would it kill you to dust every once in a while?" 

Behind him, Billy snorts, toeing one of his bags. "I leave it to keep you away. Put your stuff away yourself, _I_ need a drink." 

"Yeah, sure," he mutters, flicking the light on. It's been a long week. 

Sixteen missed calls. Seven texts. Clark cycling through anger and guilt, empty apologies. Even a little begging. It was pathetic, and Slade had snapped the damn phone in half and then thrown it in a dumpster with the rest of the garbage from his safehouse. 

The thing was stripped bare now. He'd spent too much time in Metropolis, obviously. Become comfortable. That had been a mistake. It was almost surprising that the Bat hadn't dropped in for a visit, just to really rub the salt in and warn him off Superman like some overbearing mother. 

So far, nothing. Batman stayed in his corner, and Clark only bothered him through the phone. Slade had woken up on the sixth day and decided enough was enough, then started packing up.

"Okay," he sighs to the room at large, and promptly shoves his belongings under the bed and into the closet, cracking the window open to clear out the stale air. Over a year since he'd last crashed with Billy and nothing had changed. How his friend could stand it, he'd never know. 

He gets changed, pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a loose sweatshirt, and then hogs Billy's bathroom for twenty minutes to shave off the stubble that's been growing since Monday. Long week, indeed. 

Spent doing absolutely nothing. _Feeling sorry for himself._ That was pathetic, too. About time that stopped. 

But first— he pokes his head out of the bathroom. "You got anything to drink?"

He hears Billy's groan, long-suffering, and takes it as a yes. With that sorted, he finishes up shaving, taking a long moment to fiddle with his patch before he heads out. 

"Are you sure nobody's dead?" 

"I'm sure." Slade rounds the corner, ignoring Billy's narrowed eyes to snag the offered drink. He also takes the good armchair, the one that's dead center with the television. "It's my business." 

"And yet," he says, settling onto the couch with a flat look. "Here you are. In my living room. In my favourite chair." 

"It's comfortable." He replies defensively. Under a cushion he finds the remote, flicking on the television and skipping the news. It lands on reruns of a baseball match, inoffensive enough for Slade to slouch down and sip his drink. 

If he tries hard enough, he can even pretend Billy isn't staring a hole through his head. He'd get less attention if he was buck naked, for God's sake. 

He could have gone to any number of places. And Billy is always saying he only comes over for contracts, and now that he's not here for that, it's a _thing._ Acting like it was illegal to visit a friend, all of a sudden. 

"How's things?" He finally asks, eyes glued to the game. 

"Fine." Billy responds. "Nothing doing." 

Slade grunts. Makes it all the way to the third inning before he flicks the television off, sick of the cheering crowd and the eye-watering vibrancy on the turf. "Look." He grinds his teeth. "You can zip it if you're going to tell me I'm in the wrong here." 

He hears a faint, murmured _Oh, God_ and glares. 

They've known each other for years. Decades. He's watched Wintergreen grow where he hasn't, heard all his advice — and discarded most of it— and out of everyone Slade knows, he's heard the most. Knows the most. Knows Slade the most, out of everyone. 

Despite that, nerves claw his insides viciously, threatening to stop him before he's even begun. Slade swallows hard, barely tasting his whiskey. "I've been fucking Superman." He says, rather bluntly. 

The silence that falls could kill, neither of them looking at each other for a tense moment. Having the television off is worse, he decides, and flicks it back on. 

Billy coughs. "Continue." 

"Only a few times." He says stiffly. "We were… drinking. Batman caught us. It went about as well as you'd expect." 

"He chased you off?" 

Slade shakes his head, mouth twisted wryly. "Not him." Inhales sharply through his nose, considering his glass before swallowing what's left. "Kicked me out." 

"And now you're here." 

"Mm." Billy's eyes meet his, guarded. Yeah, he'd have no clue what to think, either. "Fuck him." 

"I…" Billy cocks his head. "As rare an occurence as this is, I think I agree." His eyes flick back to the television, then to floor, his face falling. "And now you're here." 

"Yes," he narrows his eyes. "So?" 

"So, the last time you were kicked out of your lover's bed, you went home, Slade." He sighs. "Never should have let you in." He adds, laughing quietly. 

"What?" 

"Sometimes I don't know what to do with you." He shakes his head, his mouth pulled into a not-smile. "You're really running away from this?" _What._

"I'm not running." He spits. 

Billy arches an eyebrow. "Looks like running."

"I'm starting to think I should have booked a hotel." Slade shifts, the nerves slowly morphing into annoyance. Of all people, he'd expected Billy to understand. God knows why. 

"So he kicked you out. Were you expecting it to _last?"_ He huffs a laugh, not unkindly. "Or, more importantly, to end well." 

"I don't know what I was thinking." He admits. _Not_ thinking is what he was doing. Letting his cock do the talking. 

Billy makes a noise of disagreement, a gentle sound in his chest. "I can agree if you want. Call it a day, Superman's a bastard and leave it at that. But if you're here looking for advice?" Slade lets the moment pass, unwilling to confirm or deny, his shoulders stiff. "You could just talk to him."

The urge to roll his eye is _intense._ "About what?" 

"The man was probably twice as surprised as you." Billy waves a hand. "People panic. It happens. And they act selfishly." 

"Are you really siding with him here?" 

"Not everything is about picking a side." He shoots back. "And I did just say I agreed with you. Open your ears." 

"Did you not hear the part where he threw me out on my ass?" Slade waves a hand expressively, hoping it conveys what he can't quite find the words for — an uncomfortable sensation that crawls over his skin when he thinks on it too long. 

"How many times have you done that to others?" 

Slade scoffs. "Not the same." 

"Why not?" 

"Because I didn't—" The words bunch up in his throat, agonizing to put together. Slade presses into the back of the armchair with a displeased noise. "It was different." 

He hates it. The ugly way that this has crawled under his skin, dug its fingers into him in a few short months. And he hadn't even _noticed_ , too busy being blinded by sharp blue eyes and skillful hands. 

Billy, of course, has to pull the rug from under his feet. His heartbeat is strong and calm, the weight of his eyes turned soft and side-long. "Because you didn't care." He says. "Is that what you meant, Slade?" 

He _hates._ Flinches at the words like a physical blow. The question is infuriating, stubbornly unwilling to sink in, Slade's hands gripping the arm of his chair tightly. He opens his mouth, ready to tell Billy to fuck _right_ off, and finds nothing coming out besides a guttural growl. 

Billy stays seated when Slade hops to his feet, leaving the room with quick strides. Coming here was obviously a mistake. He seems to be full of those, recently. He slams the door to the spare bedroom for good measure. 

Even with the exhaustion of the week, rest doesn't come easy. Slade spends most of the night staring a hole through the ceiling, and it's a relief when he hears Billy clear the glasses away, heading to his own bed around midnight. 

Somewhere along the course of the night, Slade's anger burns itself out to nothing more than a pitiful flickering of irritation. In its place it leaves that same uncomfortable sensation, thick like mud and cloying like ash on his insides. 

It feels a lot like _care,_ as foreign as that is. Slade rolls over and shoves the spare pillow over his head with a growl. Sometimes, he really hates when Billy's right. 

In the morning, there's a handful of folders left on the kitchen island. Slade picks up one at random to peruse as he makes coffee, and takes it for what it is — a silent peace offering, in contract form. A promise not to talk about this mess anymore, hopefully. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in Gotham, Clark is currently sitting through an uncomfortable power point presentation on the dangers of canoodling with villains ):


	6. Chapter 6

"I assumed you'd have gone already." Billy comments, and doesn't hesitate to shove Slade's legs from the couch. 

Slade deigns to lift his head a fraction, the perfect angle to glare, and then moves until he can squash his legs into 50% less couch than he had before. There's an entire armchair two feet away. "I told you. I'm staying a while." 

"You're moping." Billy surmises. 

"No," he drags the remote closer, turning the volume up. "I'm taking a break." 

"Slade, you're watching daytime television and feeling sorry for yourself." 

"Mm." For all the good his enhancements have done him, they're no good at fighting off a good old fashioned headache. He rubs his temple quietly. "It's good television." 

Months have passed since his last, true break. He deserves it, even if it's not in Cuba or the Bahamas, and Billy can just deal with that fact. He's got the space to spare. His break, his activities. If Slade wants to watch shit television and drink his way through the afternoon, so be it. 

Billy sighs. "If you're going to mope, you may as well pour me a drink while you're at it." 

"For shame, Wintergreen." 

"Oh, be quiet." He murmurs, accepting the offered bottle of bourbon. "I meant with a glass." 

"I am not moving." He informs him, eyes fixed to the television, despite the commercials running. Billy takes an audible swig, then places the bottle on the floor, well within Slade's reach.

"Suit yourself." They fall into blissful silence, Billy with a book in hand. It's almost nice. 

Would be nice, if Slade wasn't curled up like a pretzel, buried under a blanket because Billy's home is fucking _cold_ , and he's starving but unwilling to make anything. 

A hotel would be nice. Room service. Central heating and a spacious shower with fantastic water pressure. Better — a bath. Something upscale, with gold furnishings, and a huge bed to sleep the day away in. 

Why he isn't there right now, he doesn't know. Billy's spare bedroom is nearly spartan, and all his friend does is needle him, and Slade yet can't quite bring himself to leave. Feels better than a hotel, even if it doesn't come with all the luxuries. 

He sighs, curls up a little tighter and drags the alcohol close. 

As it turns out, three days pass like molasses with nothing to do. Three long, boring, quiet days. Billy's pretty boring when he's not joining Deathstroke on a jaunt through the Middle East, actually. 

It _is_ nice, in the same way that poking a bruise is nice, or a headache as it recedes is nice. There isn't much to be done, or much to think about, and Billy has the wits not to bring up _Superman_ again, and let's him burn through his liquor like it's going out of style. 

Clark sticks around in his thoughts uncomfortably, which is ridiculous when they were never anything more than two people loosely linked by a handful of nights spent _fucking._ And that _word_ , accompanied by the unfortunate realisation that Billy might just be right— 

It's a little much to handle. Switching lounging spots twice throughout the day and helping Billy make breakfast is not enough. All there is to distract him is television and a bookshelf to burn through. _Talking_ about it again is not an option. Will never be an option, if Slade has any say in it.

With a handful of new jobs to take, Slade finds himself unbearably restless on the fourth day, and gone by the fifth. Just in case, he leaves most of his stuff under the bed, and takes only what he needs; the suit, the comm, a whole lot of ammunition. 

None of them are particularly _complex._ Put a bullet here. Some explosives there. Find out this. Do that. Get paid. But it works, for a while. Keeps his mind away from matters closer to home, and Slade can drown out the insistent urge to start an argument through the cleansing power of a good grenade explosion. 

Works real good, in fact, so good that Slade feels like he's been slapped when he nears the bottom of the pile and finds his eye stuck on Kansas. Of all the places. Smallville, Kansas. 

_Of all the places._ Slade resists the urge to rip the folder up, burn it for good measure. 

Funny that, how Clark Kent can inspire such _fury_ inside of him. How just the _thought_ of that pancake State, and Slade knows he's going, if only to hunt down that feeling and put lead between its eyes. 

And he will. He'll be done with it. It's a pathetically easy contract. No names, nothing beside the bare bones of details; an address, orders to keep it discrete. Something about the land the couple are sitting on, and not much more. 

He could do it in his sleep. It's all the information he needs, but he's also helpfully provided with pictures, once Slade has cooled off and thought to look through the contract properly. 

On the old side, probably retired. Might have help around their dozen acres of land. Look like every other elderly couple from the grainy photograph, holding hands on their porch at sunset, a pitcher of what looks like lemonade between them. 

It doesn't take a genius to figure out they'll be no trouble. Hell, he gets the feeling he could knock on the door in broad daylight and get it done, discrete and all. When he checks, their town is _small_ , living up to its name he supposes. Nothing but farmland for miles and a small main road, lined with hardware stores and a string of competing coffee shops and diners. 

Makes his stomach curdle a little, the picture of tranquility. Small town life is hardly something he wants to return to. But, whatever pays, and the price on their heads is _large._ Probably personal, if he had to guess. 

He buys a shitheap of a car for a handful of cash, and has it meet him outside of Dodge City, still registered to the poor bastard who last owned it. It creaks when he gets inside, the suspension all kinds of fucked up, and doesn't quite steer right. But that's the _point_ , so he suffers through the bumpiest ride of his life and combs his hair into a semblance of uniformity. Turning up looking like he's homeless is not part of the plan, even if he has let his beard grow out again.

Kansas is very different from a lot of places he's been, mainly in terms of how fucking horizontal it all is. Like they've never heard of a hill before. Even the buildings look squat, a little embarrassed to rise out of the ground and block the endless, mind-numbing view of midwestern farmland. 

Almost astonishing, really, how much he hates Kansas on principle. Dodge City was fine, and then had been Garden City, which was worse. And then he'd passed through Scott City, with the population of a shoelace, and nearly turned right around. 

No wonder Clark was such a dick, when he'd grown up here. No one to talk to. Nothing to do. Not a single sight to take in, aside from more asphalt, and the occasional truck passing through from Nebraska. 

He stops off at a lonely Walmart in the middle of Fucking Nowhere, USA. Just a tall, looming building with fluorescent lighting to keep truckers awake in the middle of the night, and picks up the bare necessities in terms of food and drink, and a pair of sunglasses, and then heads on again. 

Next stop: Smallville. Just the name makes him kind of shiver. He knows that kind of place like the back of his hand, and he's never even _been._ Never even heard of it. 

All the same. No drive to go anywhere, or do anything with your life other than go _ooh_ and _ahh_ over a prize-winning pig named Mabel, and talk about whatever it is Mary-Anne did in Church last week. Slade knows it well. 

He drives through the night, not tired in the slightest but wishing he was if only to avoid the same circular thoughts; Clark and Kansas, Kansas and Clark. In the morning, he picks up a spare alternator cable, and feels like things are making progress when more rust-red barns begin appearing in the horizon, less eighteen-wheelers. 

Just outside of Russell Springs, Slade hops out, pops the hood. There's nobody for miles, nothing but flat plains and sunshine on his shoulders, and no reason to look like he's doing anything other than fraying his own alternator belt by hand, leaving it hanging on by a thread. 

He roots through the bag in the back to grab what he needs, slotting the sunglasses on because the very last thing he needs is some local getting suspicious over an _eye-patch_. When he starts the car, it protests, a clunky _whirr_ that starts up the same time the engine light flicks on in warning.

As expected, the car stalls almost immediately. Slade gets it going again, resigned to his fate of both a bumpy _and_ slow ride. Could be worse. His ass will survive. 

Either his map is outdated, or the shitty SatNav that came with the car needs a software update, because both tell him to take a right into a two-acre cornfield three hours later. There is a sign, a happy little red thing that welcomes him to _Smallville_ , and then Slade's alternator promptly gives out with a squeal. 

Exactly as planned, he supposes, but the poetic timing hardly escapes him. _Welcome to Hicksville, you're never leaving!_ Sweat clings to his skin when he peels himself from the cracked seats, making a much larger show of checking the overheated engine now that there might be people about.

It's a shitheap, now a little shittier thanks to him. Slade wipes down the interior and then locks it up, coming around the back to grab his one duffel bag. Good thing for enhancements, or he'd _really_ hate the next part — pushing the damn thing three-quarters of a mile up to wherever his outdated map is telling him to go. 

* * *

So engrossed in the monotony of looking like he's actually struggling, Slade almost misses the damn place. The house is right, at least. The man on the porch with a hand on his brow to block the sun matches up. Slade straightens out, breath hard and laboured, and he sets a hand on his back to complete the picture.

"Need a hand?" The man shouts, taking the steps down the porch with a little spring in his step. 

Slade waves, raises his own hand to his eye, blocking the sun creeping in through the sunglasses. "Wouldn't mind." And oh, how he hates that, laying on the Kentucky lightly, the side of his mouth curved into an embarrassed smile. Billy had said it made him more approachable. "Not a clue what's wrong with it." 

"Probably dust." The man says, taking in the car with an expression that says it's definitely not the dust, but rather the fact that it should be scrapped immediately for safety concerns. "Johnathan." He closes the distance of their driveway, popping open the gate, and holds out a weathered hand. 

Slade grips it firmly, shakes once. "Will. Nice to meet you." 

"You too," Johnathan looks to the car again, hands set on his hips. It reminds him of Clark, the set of his mouth like he doesn't want to laugh so he's going to try being serious. "Could be the heat? Have you checked the—" 

"I'm going to be honest," Slade cuts in, regarding the car with a critical eye. "I have no idea what I'm looking at. Cars… aren't my thing. I usually call a mechanic." He shrugs a shoulder, practically baking under his jacket, the Kansas heat clawing its way in. "Do you have a phone? Mine died somewhere out by the Walmart." He admits, running a hand through his tied up hair. 

"A phone? Sure. Yeah. You mean the one by Route 40?" 

"The very same." He shrugs. "Thank you, by the way." They both stand for a moment, silence creeping in, and Slade kind of wishes he could just shoot the man now. Find his wife upstairs, put a bullet in her as well, and call it a day. 

"Here, I'll give you a hand with the car." 

Slade nearly laughs. "You sure?" The guy might run a farm, corn by the looks of it, but he's still pushing sixty with gray taking over most of his hair, tired lines around his eyes. "I can manage." 

"I insist." Johnathan's mouth twitches, like he knows exactly what Slade's thinking. Nevermind that Slade could keep pushing that car all the way to Colorado. 

"If you insist." Slade agrees, flashing an easy smile. "On three?" The hardest thing is making it actually feel like Johnathan's helping, rather than just shoving the car along like he's been doing for half an hour. 

They make it eventually, kicking up dust as they go, a triumphant smile on the man's face when he claps his hands together. Slade eyes the house as he catches his breath, cracked white paint and a newly fixed up porch, the screen door and potted plants, a newly tiled corner of the roof. Stuck somewhere between disrepair and brand new. 

He bets they've been getting a lot of offers, lately. Probably on the brink, won't let go of that home they've lived in for decades, as it usually goes. 

Johnathan waves him inside quietly, eyeing Slade when he shoulders his way through the door. "What're they putting in water where you grew up, son?" 

With the sunglasses on, Slade is free to roll his eye. "Kentucky. And I think that was the military that gave me all my height." He laughs, taking in the house. "That's what my Mom says, at least." 

"I bet. I served too, but I think all it gave me was a bad knee." He pats Slade's shoulder like they're friends already, and the familiarity makes his skin crawl. "I'll go get you that number. See if the wife's around." 

"Sure," he nods, and eyes the staircase lined with photographs. The comfortable couch, arranged around a television from about ten years ago. In the corner, a dog bed that's unoccupied, which is a little annoying. Dogs can be a Hell of an alarm when they want to be. 

"Make yourself comfortable." Johnathan bustles off, taking the stairs at a sprightly pace, so trusting it almost hurts. Nothing about Slade says he should be left unattended in someone's home. 

The ceiling creaks as Johnathan wanders around upstairs, marking that Slade's alone for now. With that sorted, Slade discards his jacket, curling it over his arm with a huff. Kansas is too humid. No amount of enhancements is going to fight that off. 

He pokes and prods a little, opens a couple drawers. Would be nice, just once, to find out they deserve it. Some unsavory pictures, a safe full of drugs in their little Midwestern home. 

All he finds is a selection of keys, a drawer full of bills, and about two dozen photographs dating back to the eighties. The dog pads out of the kitchen with a tail wagging a mile a minute, coming over to sniff Slade with great interest. He reaches down, fingers sinking into soft fur. 

"Good boy," he pats its head, then points to it's bed. "Off you go." Johnathan, then the dog, then the wife, he decides.

Far too trusting, just like it's owners, the dog wanders over, scratches with its paws a little and then settles down. 

Slade regards it for a second longer then wanders over to the staircase. When he peeks, there's no one there, though he can pick out the sound of Johnathan muttering in annoyance to himself in the attic, rifling through a mountain of papers and old receipts. 

He can't quite hear the wife, probably out in town — if you can call a strip of asphalt with a diner at the end that — but Slade can wait, as much as he'd rather not. The wall of photographs might take him all day to get through, at any rate. 

Two of their wedding day, _Johnathan & Martha _ scrawled at the bottom. It looks nice. Sweet. They look in love, leaned in close and their faces red like they can't quite stop grinning. The next three are of the dog, and Slade rolls his eyes, taking another step up to find pictures of _children._

Children weren't mentioned. 

Looks old, though, the photograph grainy and creased. Probably grown up by now. A little toddler, covered in mud, grinning from ear-to-ear. A hand set warmlyon his shoulder — probably Johnathan's — sitting in a red Chevy. 

The next, and the boy is that little bit more grown up, still grinning but this time his hair is combed into some semblance of order, a little parting at the side. "Cute." Slade murmurs. The blue of the boy's eyes catches the camera flash, turned a little red. 

A lot of pictures of the kid, actually. It takes him three more steps to reach the last, that little toddler all grown up, looking nothing like his father. Dark hair curled at the edges, strong jaw. Blue eyes, still catching the light, reflective like a cat's. He's holding his diploma, Johnathan right beside him, a beer bottle dangling from one hand. 

_Clark._

And it is, undeniably. Nausea kicks in, Slade's heart hammering in his chest because he's— what, _angry? Upset? Caring?_ He doesn't care. He shouldn't. 

Johnathan murmurs a soft _ah-ha,_ pulling a slip of paper free upstairs. Slade still can't quite move, his stomach sinking into the soles of his feet. Something hot burns behind his eyes, feeling cheated and lost, can't even have his work without _Clark, Clark, Clark_. 

If this is caring, he doesn't want it. Doesn't want that handsome, genuine smile, or the blue eyes he'd know anywhere, can't even _forget_ them thanks to his enhancements. He doesn't want it, and it's not fucking fair, that Clark can look at him like he doesn't even know him, and Slade is left feeling this way. 

He should blow Johnathan Kent's brains out the second he rounds the top of the stairs. Shoot the dog. Hunt down Martha Kent and put her out of her misery. 

Even thinking it, he knows he won't.

Martha Kent smashes a baseball bat into the back of his head, the damn thing splintering, and he has _no clue_ when she snuck up on him but he's sure as Hell not happy about it. Too busy having a _moment_. 

Just another reason to hate Clark with fire and passion, he supposes.


	7. Chapter 7

"Shit," Slade hisses the same moment Martha gasps. Bad. This is _bad._ Slade should have stayed on Wintergreen's fucking couch, watching _Real Housewives_ for fucks sake. 

"Oh." Martha mumbles, breathless and shocked. Which, yeah, she should be. The woman just broke a baseball bat over his head. 

Slade is incredibly slow when he puts his hands up, winding his fingers into his hair. "I'm not going to hurt you, lady." Johnathan comes tumbling down the stairs at that exact moment, pale-faced not two steps from Slade. 

"Johnathan, stay back." Martha snaps. Slade chances a look and finds the splintered edge of the bat pointed at his head, not much of a threat but it's kind of impressive. Didn't think the old couple had it in them. "He's armed." 

_What._ All he's got is the firearm strapped to his shin, but that's hardly obvious, tucked under his jeans. _How did she—?_

Not the point. "I'm a friend of your son's." He says quickly, jerking his head to the picture. "Clark." 

"Martha," Johnathan says slowly. "We always knew this was a possibility."

 _What._ Slade bites his tongue, lets the heavy silence pass between the two of them. Somewhere along the way, there's obviously been a misunderstanding. He squints at the photograph, Clark's smile bright and young. 

"Who do you work for?" She asks. Shakes the bat a little more. "Which branch?" 

Slade quirks an eyebrow. "I work for myself. Look, can I— are you going to shove that in my eye if I turn around?" The answer isn't an immediate _no_ , which kind of takes guts, but eventually she sags, dropping the bat with a dull thunk.

Every move is careful and slow, just about as non-threatening as Slade can bear to be. Explaining this one to Clark isn't going to help his case any. Johnathan inches his way down the stairs, then around him like he's liable to bite, the two of them regarding him with worry. 

"Explain yourself." Martha sniffs. Her hand shakes when she rubs her forehead. 

"Someone put a hit on you two." _That_ seems to shock them, Johnathan turning a funny color, and Martha's eyes flick to the bat again. "The land you're sitting on, somebody wants it very badly." 

Martha's face does something, damn near impossible to read, just a little twitch of her mouth. "Luthor did this?" 

"Luthor did this?" Slade parrots. Vaguely, he can connect the dots, but that still leaves a whole heap of questions. "What the hell did you mean, what branch am I with?" 

His head hurts a little. Slade pops the sunglasses up, eyeing Martha closely. 

"Who's after you?" 

"You think you're the first armed man to turn up here, looking at pictures of Clark like that?" He can almost hear her teeth grind. "If you are — as you say — a friend of his, I'm sure you understand." 

"I do." He says, an awkward piece clicking into place. And then, "Do you make a habit of hitting all of them with a bat?" 

Martha shifts. 

Johnathan coughs lightly, drawing his attention. "So, about, uh, why you're here." 

"Oh." Slade scratches his head. "I…" Not often his contracts turn out this awkward, he's got to say. "I won't be giving you any trouble. Contract's off." The ear-full he'll get from Clark about this— 

Neither of them seem particularly convinced, but they share a quick look, an entire conversation happening in silence before Martha steps away, a hand buried in her head. 

"Clean this mess up." She says, particularly brave in turning her back on him to stride into the kitchen and start banging cupboards open, the scrape of glassware loud. Johnathan shrugs, giving Slade a long look before he heads back up the stairs, returning with an indecipherable expression and a dustpan.

"Right," he murmurs. Kind of sees where Clark gets it, that authorative tone. Martha's got it down pat. 

This was not how he saw this contract going, obviously. Picking up shards of wood and a smattering of glass. Johnathan quietly takes the offered broken picture frame, one of Clark with a party hat stuck lopsided on his head. 

He should call him. Clark deserves that, at least. Apparently, people are trying to kill his parents. He would probably want to know that. 

And he'd rather not give him any more reason to want nothing to do with him, but that's already fucked six ways to Sunday, regardless of him turning up at his family home. Disappearing would not help his case. Whatever his case may be.

Was it always this exhausting, giving a shit about people?

"So the car's not really broken?" 

Slade blinks. "I broke it myself." 

Johnathan makes a small _hm_ , a little amused. He's awfully calm, for a man who almost died. Then again, apparently this is a semi-regular occurrence, or at least used to be. Slade finishes tidying up in silence, feeling supremely unwelcome when he has to duck into the kitchen and dump it in the garbage. 

He lingers anyway, despite Martha steadfastly ignoring him, not quite sure what to say. She's still moving things around like it's doing anything, half a jug of lemonade pulled out of the fridge, three glasses lined up. 

The dog pads on through, wide awake now and giving Slade a long, distrustful stare. Martha stops long enough to pat its head, murmuring little shaken up words that mean nothing, and then sighs deeply. 

Slade shifts, a shard of glass stuck in the sole of his shoe scraping along the floor. "I can go." 

"I really think you should stay." She mutters. "Explain to me why my son is friends with—" Her hand waves in his general vicinity, Martha then tying up her hair. "I don't know." 

"In his defense," Slade murmurs, "he wants nothing to do with me currently." 

He fully expects her to agree, given what she knows of him, but instead she cracks a smile. Just a small one. "What'd he do?" 

"Who says he did anything?" 

"I love my boy, dearly." She murmurs, her hands hovering for a minute before she sets about pouring drinks. "He's the best boy I could ever ask for. But he is not without his flaws. I know them well." She sighs. "And knowing your… profession." The rest doesn't exactly need said, Martha sliding a drink along to him. 

"Yeah." He murmurs, voice a little rough. Everything feels a little unreal, a little too surreal for his tastes, let alone the fact that he's meeting his fuck-buddy's parents. Slade laughs, shakes his head quietly. "I…" he huffs, not quite sure what else to add. "I think maybe we should wait until he's here for that one." 

As if on cue, he hears Johnathan upstairs, the ceiling creaking as he shifts from foot to foot in front of the landline. The conversation is short, clipped, and then Johnathan is abruptly hung up on. 

"Sorry about this." Slade murmurs, trying for a genuine smile. Martha's mouth sets uncomfortably. 

He gets one sip of lemonade before he hears the tell-tale _boom_ , and sets his glass down in double-time. Yeah. He's fucked. Fully prepared for the hurricane that sweeps in, Martha barely jumps at the intrusion. 

It's his eyes that catch Slade the most, raging like a forest fire. Wild and unchecked, spitting heavy sparks of red that could cut Slade in two before he knows what's happened. And those _hands_. Bruise-tight on his arm, the column of Slade's neck, his thumb dug into his jaw hard enough it might dislocate.

Every inch of unbridled fury, all that power and anger, Clark's mouth stuck in a wordless snarl and it's all for Slade — _just_ for Slade. He hates how relieved it makes him, just the sight of that face, never more handsome than when he's dangerous. 

"You put him down." Martha commands, two feet away and not batting an eye. "Clark." Slade grips Clark's wrist tightly, holding on rather than fighting back. That would be pointless. 

"He tried to kill you." Clark throws back, but the venom there is _all_ for Slade, their eyes locked. His head swims a little, toes not quite touching the ground. 

"Clark." She repeats.

Clark's eyes flutter, the red coming in waves, and his voice sounds raw and scraped. "I can't believe you." He growls. "My _parents._ " 

Slowly, the realisation sinks in that he's never truly been choked by Superman until this very moment, his circulation cut with clean precision. Both his lungs struggle, Slade gritting his teeth uselessly. 

Between one moment and the next he's dropped on his ass, Clark's hands shaking and his eyes screwed shut. _Close_ , he notes in dim fascination. Real damn close to losing it. He sucks in whistling breaths of oxygen, rubbing a hand over his face, his throat already beginning to swell. 

"I didn't _know._ " He says, voice gone hoarse. "I had no clue it was them." 

"You just didn't want to look." Clark snaps. Looms over him with fire in his eyes, chest heaving with that hopeful crest, his boots trailing the ground. 

"I'm telling you, I didn't—" Slade grunts, pushing to his feet on shaken legs. "I think we should do this outside." 

" _Clark."_ Martha repeats, voice like steel this time, and Clark sends her quick, guilty eyes for a moment, before he's back on Slade, hands rough when they take him by the collar. 

"With me." He growls, barely real words at this point. He's hardly given other options, shoved through the back door and down the porch steps, Clark hot on his heels. 

"Listen—" 

"If you think I'm going to listen to _anything_ you say, you're dead wrong." Clark spits. "A contract on my _parents_ , Slade. Do you even hear yourself?" 

"Jesus fuck," Slade shouts, kicks up dust when he rounds on Clark, because he can do fire and fury too, he can get on his high horse. Hits him in the chest hard, his fingers curled into the stupid lapels of his cape, dragging Clark close. " _I fucked up._ " He snarls. "I fucked it up, and I am fucking _sorry._ But you sure as shit fucked up, too." For good measure, Slade shakes him, hard. 

"Because I needed to speak to _Batman_ alone, or risk you getting arrested, you self-absorbed—" Clark laughs, a harsh and grating noise. "You really are insane if you think this comes even _close._ " 

Slade makes an animalistic noise, right in his abused throat. His hand hurts, spiderwebs of pain lancing through his knuckles. Clark hits him right back, and that hurts, too. 

"Fuck," Slade gasps, blood in his mouth, the side of his head pounding. "I didn't even _do_ anything to them." Clark goes again, grazing his shoulder instead as Slade lurches to the side. 

"They're my _parents."_ Clark snaps. Stops trying to hit him at least, but he still gets his hands all over Slade, gripping his shoulder tightly. "Are you kidding me, Slade?" 

"They're fucking fine!" He shouts. From the kitchen window, he can see Martha watching them punch it out like teenagers, perfectly healthy. "I said I was sorry." 

"That's not _enough_ —" Clark yells, all vibrant emotion, and his fingers dig in like claws. "You think saying sorry is enough? Congratulations, Slade, you managed to apologise for once in your life." 

_What—_ What the fuck is he even supposed to do here? Nothing is right, apparently. And nevermind that Clark's parents are fine, because Clark is still a colossal dick, and he can't believe he thought for a single second that he might like Clark. Obviously, he's losing it in his old age. 

"You're insufferable." Slade throws back. "What else do you want me to say? Get on my knees and suck your dick, maybe? Grovel at your feet? Fuck you, you should be doing that to me." He shoves, pushes hard with every ounce of anger in him and Clark lets go, a coldness starting to seep into the edges of his face. 

"For—" he splutters, like an idiot. "For kicking you out? You think that this is in any way comparable." Clark's hands shake when he runs them through his hair, ruffling the perfect gelled edges. "You really think that." 

Slade's teeth ache when he grinds them, tasting blood. "I think you're overreacting." 

" _You_ skipped town, because you panicked." 

" _You_ panicked first." He growls. "Batman shows up and suddenly you can't even look me in the eye." And fuck, does he hate that, just the memory enough to clench around his chest like a vice, just as cold as Clark had seemed in that moment. "Can't risk your reputation, right? You realise I put mine on the line, too." 

Clark steps closer, and Slade isn't ashamed to say he steps back, circling the other man with a glare. "I did it to protect you." 

"How the fuck am I supposed to believe that, Clark." _Where_ in all the worlds does Slade even need that. He can take Batman, could take Clark too, if he'd come prepared. "You did it to protect yourself." 

"Not everyone is as selfish as you, Slade." He pinches the bridge of his nose, head tipped down. "And how am I supposed to believe you didn't know? Take you at your word?" 

"How about the contract sitting in my car, you idiot." For good measure, he waves a hand in the general direction of his shitheap car. "Or how about I'm not stupid enough to take a hit on Superman's parents and _not_ bring reinforcements?" Another wave, this time at the kitchen window, where he dimly notes Johnathan has joined Martha, the two of them with their heads bent together. "And lastly, they're fucking alive, aren't they? Your mother hit me with a baseball bat and I didn't touch a hair on her head." 

It's the wrong thing to say, apparently, because Clark barrels into him with the force of a truck. Slade can't take him down, but it becomes clear quickly he's pretty shit at hand-to-hand, and Slade grabs fistfuls of hair, uses his own momentum to send him flipped on his back. 

"Will you stop?" He growls. Hits him again, if only because the pain clears his head a little, knuckles on fire. Clark flips them immediately, Slade's head hitting the ground with a dull thud. Fist raised, his breathing harsh, a crushing weight on Slade in the heat — Clark stops. 

"Now you want to talk?" Clark asks, teeth grit. "I called you every single day."

"I'd rather not end up dead." Slade throws back, eyes on that raised fist, Slade's blood on his knuckles. "Listen to me, asshole." 

"You're not helping your case." 

"I know." He huffs. Only shifts enough that his knee isn't caught at an awkward angle under Clark's thighs, his fingers buried in the dirt. "And fine, whatever, you can look in my car if you'd like. But yeah, all you have is my word. So take me off to jail if you want, or you can pull your head out of your ass and listen." 

Above him, Clark shifts, his fist wavering before it drops entirely. "What." Clark grinds out. 

"You could also let me up." He adds, earning himself a rose-tinted glare. "Fine. You want the truth? I don't get why you're so pissed. I probably never will. They're fucking _fine_ , and I'm not going to put a bullet in their heads the moment your back is turned—" 

"Slade—" 

"No. Shut up, for once in your life." He snaps, leaning up on sore shoulders until he's close enough he can feel Clark's chest against his. "I don't get it. Never will. Sorry is the _best_ I can give you. And I don't get why the fuck I even _care_ that you threw me out, and I sure as shit don't get why I still want to fuck you, or why it matters so damn much in the first place—" 

Clark slots his hand over Slade's mouth like duct tape. Slade fights the petty urge to lick him, his boots digging into the ground. "Slade." He says, voice quiet and eyes slipped shut but the glow lingers behind his lids.

Clark's fingers flex over his mouth. Something flits over his face, unreadable, his jaw clenched tight and shoulders tense like tripwire. He keeps him there, waiting and waiting, and Slade's words play on embarrassing repeat, a broken record of everything he doesn't want Clark to know in the first place. 

He wishes he could reach his pistol. Even if it wouldn't do anything to Clark, it might make him feel better. 

"You are… ridiculous." Clark finally murmurs, a wobble to his words. "Infuriating. You drive me _nuts_ , and you are so fucked up I can't even begin to— to say—" Slade swallows, the skin of Clark's hand warm and heavy. "Damn you." He mutters, eyebrows scrunched together. 

Just as suddenly, Clark's hand is gone, his weight lifted. Slade blinks against the piercing sun, only blocked out when Clark leans over him, looking about as deflated as Slade feels all of a sudden. He's still a melting pot of emotion, but it's difficult to keep up once the adrenaline has worn off. 

Everything aches when Slade pushes himself up, muscles overworked in the way only Clark can get them, and he keeps his distance once he's upright. "What the hell does that mean?" He finally asks, voice rough. 

"It means," Clark replies, eyes fixed on some undefined point in the horizon, "I'm not taking you to prison. And I… I need to see that contract." He sighs, shoulders fallen. "And then we need to talk." 

"Didn't we just do that?" Slade mutters. He looks around but can't even spot where his sunglasses have disappeared to. 

"I mean like normal people do, Slade." Clark snaps. He rubs his face. "No punching. Just… talking." 

"I agree," comes Martha's voice, and when the fuck she came outside, Slade has no clue. She leans through the open screen door, a displeased set to her mouth. "If you boys are done rough-housing, that is." 

"Sorry, Ma." Clark sighs. He fixes Slade with a look, heavy and promising something unpleasant before turning on his heel, following Martha up the porch. 

He lingers in the doorway, all red-and-blue with the cape catching the wind, and then ducks inside. 


	8. Chapter 8

Clark reads the contract. Slade drinks his lemonade. He doesn't protest when Clark promptly burns the folder to ash, and then grinds his boot into it. Whatever makes him feel better. 

Now that things have gone quiet — and he means _quiet_ , not a peep out of anyone after Martha had shoved a glass of lemonade into Clark's hands and pushed him out the door — Slade's just tired. Not like he could sleep, but exhausted, thinking of Billy's spare bedroom or just the backseat of his car. Clark's apartment, and how quiet that could be, sometimes. 

"So you never thought to ask for a name." Clark says, still staring at the little smudge of ash. "Not once." 

"It's not unusual." Slade sighs, resting a hip on the car gingerly. "I don't know the names of half the people I've killed." 

"You knew where I grew up." Clark adds, his eyebrows raised, a far-away stare. "I told you." 

"If I'm being honest," Slade replies, a little disgruntled. "There were other things on my mind." 

That drags his attention away, Clark's head tilted in such a way that sunlight catches the edge of his hair, the ruffled curl over his forehead. "Such as?" 

Slade swallows hard, not quite sure how he talked himself into this corner. Never, in his life, has his voice come out so unsure, so damn quiet. "You." And fuck it, he can't look at Clark right then, would rather go blind looking at the sun than see whatever's happening. 

It's one thing to say it when they're fighting, blood pumping. Angry and throwing sloppy punches. But it's been nearly forty-five minutes of quiet recovery, and there's hardly any excuses sitting around here for Slade to grasp. 

"Slade," Clark murmurs. Sighs tiredly, his boots a soft scrape on the dirt. "Look at me." 

Slade continues to study the horizon with interest. Feels like it stretches on forever, just soft blue clashing against the golden tops of wheat in the distance, peaceful in a way that makes him nervous. 

Rather forcefully, he's made to look instead, Clark's fingers firm on his chin. There's no fighting it when he meets Clark's eyes, red-rimmed and searching, looking for something that Slade has no idea if he can give. Whatever it is, it's important, and he knows that much by the shake of Clark's hand against his face, palming its way up to his cheek. 

For a long minute, he says nothing. Just cradles Slade's face in a way that's both gentle and firm, his palm warm. After a tense moment, Slade leans into it, not quite sure what he's supposed to be doing. 

"All I have done," Clark bites out, little trembling words. "Is think about you. Call you. Text you." His mouth twists. "You didn't pick up. Didn't— You disappeared. And I thought, I thought I've fucked it up. I know I did." His next words are incredibly gentle, and Slade's stomach twists itself into knots as he listens. "I couldn't get over it." 

"You can fly," Slade points out, just to clear the roughness in his throat. His body seems to be feeling something his head isn't quite yet. Responses he can't control — the churning of his stomach and the insistent sweat of his palms, the warmth he can't unstick his focus from on his bruised cheek. "Could have dropped by." 

"Yeah," Clark laughs breathlessly. "And have you hate me more?" 

"Fair." He shifts on the spot, leaning further into the heated hood of the car. "Probably would have used my new grenade launcher." He mutters, a little surprised when Clark laughs again because he's being _serious._

A warm thumb traces beneath his eye, an insanely intimate touch that feels more reserved for the most secluded of places. "I am not over you almost killing my parents, Slade. Not even close." He says, and holds up a finger when Slade riles up. "But— But. I'm… this isn't a deal-breaker." 

"I wasn't aware there was a deal." 

"I'm making one." Clark cuts in. "After Batman dropped in," he says, a little annoyance there, "we talked. He basically kept me prisoner for two days." 

Slade raises an eyebrow. 

"Not literally, but still, it was a lot of talking." He shakes his head lightly. "But he… he said something." 

After that, he doesn't actually _say_ anything, and Slade's hands just get that little bit sweatier. Whatever it is, it's probably not good, but every signal he can read just says Clark is sad, maybe. Nervous. 

"Spit it out." 

"You're going to freak out." Is what Clark says instead, his eyes flitting from Slade's to the ground, to his palm where it grips his bruise. "Just… give it a minute, before you give me a response, okay?" 

Well, that's not fucking good. Slade grunts, feeling Clark lean a little closer, like he's trying to physically impress the words upon him from hip to shoulder. 

"We were talking, a lot. And he said—" Clark grimaces. "He said I care about you. And I think I agree. And I just— I really need you to take a minute here, and not freak out, Slade." 

_What—_ _Not freak—_ _Cares?_ Slade's thoughts stop about there, nothing but that little word on repeat, over and over and over. And yeah, freaking out sounds good, because his limbs have turned cold and prickly with pins and needles. And Clark is close enough he can see the burst capillaries in the whites of his eyes, the dust smear over one eyebrow from when he'd thrown a punch. 

Can feel Clark's hand as it starts to withdraw from his cheek, stealing all that warmth with it, Slade's heart beating an irregular beat. 

A few emotions flicker through his chest, a jangled up mess that he can't begin to unravel without more of that drink Clark brought home, a _lot_ more of that stuff, actually. It's the absence of anger that he notices, though, because it's usually always there when it comes to Clark. He's always doing something to piss him off, and right now it's nowhere to be seen. 

Slade swallows hard, tasting the left-over tang of blood, and digs his nails into the hood of the car. "Wintergreen said the same thing." He finally says, barely loud enough to be heard and then clicks his jaw shut, wishes he could kick himself with how flayed open he feels right then, like Clark can see his beating, sticky, red insides and the awful mess happening inside his chest. 

It's the closest he can bear to saying it. It is, possibly, the only way in which he'll ever be able to say it when he's sober and thinking clearly, and not spitting with rage. 

Clark flinches, his eyes lifting to meet Slade's. "Is that so." Holds his gaze tightly, unwilling to let go as that hand slides back into place. "And what do you… what do you think?" 

"I think," Slade murmurs, blinking hard. He _can't—_ his head hurts, in the worst kind of way, and the tiredness in his muscles is only compounding, too tired to pick apart what he fucking _thinks._ "I really wanted to kiss you. Before." His eyes flick down, just that short distance to Clark's red mouth, perfectly untouched after Slade's useless punches. "Still do." 

His mouth tips on a smile, just barely. "Maybe you should." Clark murmurs, because he's still a bastard, and it's all the permission Slade needs to lean in and press their mouths together. 

He's so _warm_ Slade nearly moans, mouth soft and accepting when Slade licks in. Tastes how he always does, that unique non-taste he can only describe as Clark, warm and wet and inviting. That thumb strokes across his cheek again, Clark pressing firm until Slade bends to his will, tilts his head just right for Clark to fervently map out Slade's mouth in return. 

It ends far too soon for his liking, Clark keeping up that strangely soothing motion over his bruise, Slade's mouth electric everywhere Clark had touched. Slade unsticks his hands from the burning hood of the car, wiping his bottom lip with his palm. 

"I didn't hear a deal in there." He coughs, his eye drawn back to Clark's the longer the silence drags on. 

"The deal is," he inhales sharply, holding it. "We do this, properly. And I mean _properly_." 

"What, you mean dates?" He asks, almost laughs at how ridiculous he sounds. 

"I mean, no more… getting in these messes. And you— I'd like it if you stayed the night more." Clark admits, a pathetically quiet sentence. "Just giving it a try." 

"You want to try this _again_." 

Clark leans back, but his hips are still slotted against Slade's, the column of his neck bared to the sun. "I do. Actually. Which is _insane_ , but nothing about this exactly makes sense." 

"I don't see how this is a deal." Slade points out. He reaches out, fingers running through the thick fabric of his cape, tugging Clark back in. 

"The deal is that you give this a try. And I mean a _real_ try, Slade. You can't drop off the face of the Earth the second things don't go your way." 

He opens his mouth, ready to respond but finds Clark's hand slotted over his mouth again, a heavy weight. 

"In return, I will do my best to move on from this." Clark turns his head slightly, eyeing the porch. "And I'll try — and I do mean try — to… accept what I can't change about you." He says lightly, a very careful set of words that sink into his mind whisper-quiet.

He waits until the hand slips a little before he tilts his head, hair falling into his good eye but he can still spot the nerves written over Clark. "You've been practicing that all week, haven't you?" 

"In the mirror." Clark confirms quietly. "I want to make this work, Slade." He sighs. "What do you say?" 

"It's not a no." Is all he manages, feels like he's got a fist shoved down his throat for all he can talk. "You told me not to _freak out._ " 

He needs a fucking drink, is what he needs. And a target. Preferably one far away from Kansas. But— 

Clark nods, slow, his eyes glued to Slade. "That's… that's good." He nods again, surer this time, and Slade rolls his eye. 

"Whatever." Slade mutters. He doesn't get any longer to talk than that, Clark's mouth pressed against his again, insistent and warm, both of Clark's hands winding into his hair with something close to a moan. 

"Not a no." Clark repeats, which sounds a lot like _so it's a yes._ Slade bites Clark's lip, shifting their hips together. 

"Not a no." He agrees.


	9. Chapter 9

Heading back inside is an awkward affair, Slade's mouth still tingling. Clark looks suitably embarrassed for the both of them at least, a heavy shade of red on his cheeks when he slinks his way to the kitchen. 

Martha raises an eyebrow. "All done?" 

"Yes, ma'am." Clark mumbles, gathering his cape into his hands before leaning against the counter. "I think so." 

Both sets of eyes fix on him, which is incredibly uncomfortable. Slade shrugs. Even if he's adopted, Clark looks an awful lot like Martha. Same crinkle in their noise when they smile. 

"Do I want to know?" She hedges, clearing away the lemonade, wiping down the counters with all the focus in the world. "Cause that sure looked like a kiss out there." 

_"Ma."_

"Well," she says lightly. "It did. I don't want to pry, but you did have a punch-up in my home." 

Clark studies his little red boots a little longer, eyebrows glued together. 

"It was." Slade finally says, earning himself a glare. "What, were you about to lie? Shame on you, Clark." 

"Ma, I can explain." 

"I'm sure." She regards them both with an unimpressed look, then to the doorway. "Maybe it's best you stay for dinner." 

"Excuse me?" _What._ He's spent enough time here already. Doesn't need to go getting chummy with Clark's parents, certainly not. 

Clark jerks upright. "What? No." 

"Clark Johnathan Kent." Martha throws back. 

"Slade has places to be." Clark tries. Which he does. He always does. But that's hardly the point. 

"And I'm sure he can put them off," Martha says, doesn't even look at him, "to explain to me why you were kissing in my front yard. Not to mention he told us he was called _Will._ " 

"Really, Slade?" Clark asks. "Will?" 

"I hardly expected them to live long enough to—" 

"Christ." Clark mutters. Rubs his forehead. "Okay, yeah, we'll stay for dinner, Ma." 

"Do I get a say in this?" 

In unison, they both turn on him. "No." 

Great. 

With that apparently settled, she sends Clark upstairs with motherly authority to get changed, leaving the two of them alone. 

Martha doesn't do or say anything the entire time, but it still cranks Slade up with tension. The silence is worse than hearing whatever's on her mind. 

He could slip out the door, she couldn't stop him. But then he'd stupidly agreed not to _disappear—_ He squashes that thought down along with the claustrophobia, feels like being tied down, like a _prisoner._

It's not the same. Logically, he knows that. But there is a much larger part of Slade that keeps an eye on that doorway like it's his only hope. 

When Clark returns, he's in mouth-watering clothes. They are _far_ too tight, hugging every bulging muscle and baring the hollow of his throat under a college sweatshirt. Not to mention his thighs having a fight with a faded pair of jeans. 

"Very nineties." He comments, eyeing the cut of the hem. 

"Be quiet." Clark mutters, avoiding his gaze. 

"Clark was always a bit behind on fashion." Martha comments. Clark makes a noise, disgruntled, and shoves his hands in the pockets. 

"I can see that." Slade tilts his head, enjoying the look that steals over Clark's face. If Martha weren't here, he'd do all kinds of things to him in those clothes, appreciative when Clark turns to peer through the house, giving him a _fantastic_ view. Poetry could be written about that ass, clad tightly in denim.

"Where's Pa?" 

"Said he needed to go work on something in the barn." Martha replies. "I think he just needed a minute." 

"Right, sure." Clark scratches his head. "You need a hand?" 

"I'm sure Slade here can help out just fine. He's got two hands, doesn't he?" 

"Uh, what?" Slade blinks. Clark's mouth twitches like he wants to laugh, then straightens out. 

"I should go talk to Pa, then." He murmurs. 

"You're leaving?" Slade asks, definitely not panicking, nope. Being left alone with someone's mother shouldn't fill him with such dread.

"I don't bite." Martha injects mildly, which is not the point. He isn't afraid of some midwestern housewife. 

Clark hesitates in the doorway, then nods gently. "I'm going to the barn, Slade. Not leaving the planet." 

"I know that, but—" 

"You'll be fine." Clark adds, and now he does smile before ducking out, a little _woosh_ of air that says he's a coward and used a burst of speed. Fucker. Slade finishes off his lemonade with a grimace, lingering in the kitchen, not quite sure what to do. 

The barn's not far, a big hulking thing close-by that Clark could _absolutely_ see him from if he tried to leave. Which he does want to do. Very much so. He didn't agree to this, of all things. 

Martha taps his elbow as she passes. "You any good with a knife?" 

"Better than your son." He grumbles. 

"Good," she leans over, pops open a cupboard that actually appears to be a fridge, and starts pulling out all manner of things. "You can help cook, then." 

He eyes the ingredients, a veritable mountain of vegetables and a pot of stock, just about half the fridge emptied onto the counter. "You're awfully calm about this." He notes. 

"You're not the strangest he's brought home." 

"Oh?" Now that he does want to hear. Slade draws closer, plucking up a chef's knife from the block. Better than the mish-mash Clark keeps at home, all shoved into a drawer. "Do tell." 

Martha laughs. "How about we start with you?" 

Slade snorts, his throat still sore. "Not much to know." Martha offers him a vegetable peeler and then shoves a handful of carrots his way, Slade getting started. Apparently, he's cooking. 

Not how he saw today going. 

"How about your name?" Martha bumps his hip, an awfully familiar move for someone who doesn't even know his last name, Slade fighting the knee-jerk urge to move away. 

He doesn't like it one bit. They're too… friendly. 

"Slade Wilson." He replies. Martha's hands still on the vegetables, her head tipped back on a musical laugh. "It's not that funny." 

" _Will_." Is all she says, and laughs again, little crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Slade squints, peeling carrots a little more firmly. "I see why Clark likes you." 

Slade slices each carrot lengthwise, then into finer and finer chunks, stewing on those words. It's awfully quiet now that they're not fighting in the backyard, nobody around for a good few acres that Slade can pick out with his hearing. Just the creaking of the house, the muted sounds of Clark and Johnathan outside. 

Martha's muffled laughter. 

He rolls his eyes. "What is this, anyway?" 

"Clark likes minestrone soup." She says. "I make it every time he visits." Slade adds it to the ever-growing list of things he's learned about Clark, and gets to peeling potatoes next. "What about you?" 

"Food?" He shrugs. "Whatever's there." He doesn't remember a time when he'd cared what he put in his mouth. So long as food was _there_ , that is. Feels weird, thinking on all the times she must have made it, purely because Clark was there. 

Seemed like a lot of trouble. Slade frowns at the vegetables like they might have answers, Martha leaning into his space to grab a paring knife and get started on the smaller greens. 

Everything was weird about this, actually. As foreign as Clark often was. They were so _calm_ , and Martha's unflinching acceptance of Clark coming in like a tornado was unsettling at best. The little pictures on the walls, and the chewed up dog toys in the hall, all the little knick-knacks and lemonade ready to go in the fridge. 

Slade had rarely seen anything like it. That this was what Clark came home to, every time without fail, it made something clench in his chest. It made sense, when Clark expected the best of everyone. He'd had the best, all his life. 

"You're tighter-lipped than Batman." She comments lightly, face straight. It sounds like a hook if he's ever heard one, reeling Slade in. 

He bites. _"He's_ been here?" 

"Once or twice." She shrugs. "Fixed our roof one time. Helped out with the harvester, too." The thought alone drags a laugh out of Slade, unable to picture much more than kevlar-clad hands, or perhaps that stupid playboy smile. 

He'd probably turned up looking a million bucks and left soaked with sweat, miserable and sticky. That perfectly styled hair all fucked up, too. 

"Who else?" He asks, a little curious. 

"Oh, everyone." Slade raises an eyebrow. "Like I said, you're not the strangest he's brought home." 

"Even the Martian?" 

"He likes my peach tea." 

* * *

"All she did was ask your name?" Clark asks, a little incredulous. 

"And tell me about your friends." He murmurs, poking a poster of _Jurassic Park._ Clark's bedroom is downright tiny, enough space to fit a single bed and all the trinkets a teenage boy could want. 

It's infinitely interesting, poking around his things. Martha and Johnathan have left it as is, a little time capsule of Clark's earlier years, right down to the beaten up sneakers shoved under the bed, about three sizes too small now. 

"Martian Manhunter likes her peach tea." Slade comments. Clark snorts. "Said you liked me." He adds, tries to sound smug but just comes off as flat instead. 

"I think we covered that I do." From the bed, he shifts. Looks ridiculous, all heavy muscled limbs on spaceship themed bedding. Slade toes the door shut as he moves along to poke the collection of trading cards on his dresser. 

"Baseball?" They're dusty, Slade flicking the stack to clear them a little. Probably over a decade old. "You ever played?" 

"I didn't play sports." Clark shrugs. "What are you doing?" 

"Looking. And what do you mean you didn't play sports?" Awful stats on the cards. Slade wracks his brain, cycling through the names and nearly laughs when he places them. "You know they made history with this season?" 

"Pa wouldn't let me." Clark huffs. "I am well aware. Over a hundred losses." 

"You're _jacked._ " Slade doesn't quite flap his gums like a fish, but it's pretty close. The kid in those pictures had been quarterback material, for God's sake. "Go Royals." 

He stares at the cards a little more, mouth curved into a smile, then puts them away in favour of poking the figurines. 

"Can you stop touching my stuff?" 

"What, you worried I'll find your sticky magazines?" 

"They would be about fifteen years old, so no." Clark snorts. "And I never— that's not the point." Slade raises an eyebrow, enjoying the twist of Clark's mouth, the embarrassment blooming under his cheeks. "Shut up." 

"Never? Not once?" He draws away from the little figurines, grinning. "Seriously? What else is there to do around here except look at porn? I think all I did when I was seventeen was jerk off." 

"I was helping out with the farm, Slade." He huffs. Doesn't meet his eyes, though, and that just reels Slade even closer, the bed protesting when he settles onto Clark's lap. "Slade." 

"What? I'm just sitting." For good measure, he presses down, enjoying the firm muscle under him. "Scared your parents will find out? Because I think they already know." 

"I know they know." Clark rolls his eyes. Both his hands find Slade's hips anyway, fingers tight. "But I also know you. We are not having sex here." 

"Who said anything about sex?" He hums. "Last I checked, we were in the middle of something, back at your place, anyway." 

"I—" Clark bites his lip. Stares at Slade's mouth like it's the only thing in the world. "No. I am not doing anything in my parent's home." 

"Spoilsport." Slade murmurs, and gets as far as a chaste kiss before Clark pushes him back. It's a gentle push, nothing like before, Clark's eyes searching for a moment before he relaxes. "Your mother's making minestrone soup, by the way."

"I know." 

"She really do that every time?" 

Clark shrugs. "Pretty much." 

"You really have no idea how good you've got it, do you?" Slade asks. He's not bitter, not in the slightest. But it's nearly astounding how quiet things are around here. Miles away from what he knows. 

"Or," Clark corrects, "maybe it's how bad others have it." 

"I mean, are you sure they're not aliens?" Slade whispers. "They've got a hand-knitted blanket with all your names on it. Who has time for that, and running a farm?"

"Ma made it when I was a baby." He smiles slightly, a far-away thing. "Wanted me to have something from both my parents."

"See? Who can do that, raise a baby, and run a farm."

"Slade, my parents are human. Sorry to burst your bubble." With that, he pushes Slade off entirely, dumping his ass on the bed. "And I am not having sex with you here. We're not horny teenagers." 

"Speak for yourself." Slade grins, fingers dipping to play with his zipper, earning a laugh from Clark. 

* * *

He's never quite seen an expression like the one Clark sports now. Somewhere between crying, swallowing a lemon, and the tight-jawed look he gets when he orgasms. It's a wonderful look. 

Slade rubs Clark's thigh again, thumb brushing the insistent bulge of his cock. He wonders, briefly, if it might rip the jeans. Now that would be something. 

Some entertainment, at least. 

"Don't like the soup?" Martha asks lightly, sitting across from Clark at their tiny dinner table. "Slade helped. He's a pretty good cook." 

"Huh? Yeah." Clark forces out. "It's great. Really good. Thank you, Ma." Under the table, Slade pats his knee before moving back to his previous spot. 

"So," Johnathan murmurs, when the conversation immediately dies again. "How'd you two meet?" Clark coughs to mask his foot hitting against Slade's like a brick. Hurts like a bastard.

"Oh, I can answer that one." Slade pokes at his soup a little. "He found me with a rifle on a west end roof. Messed up my shot." Martha hums the same way she has all evening, as if personally invested in not being shocked, entirely committed to being welcoming. "He swooped in, all red-and-blue and nearly broke my hand."

"That's not how it went." Clark grinds out. Slade squeezes his thigh. 

"Yes it was, or are you questioning the man with the photographic memory?" 

"I mean, that's not the first time we met." Clark says, which stops him short. 

"It was." Slade reiterates, setting an elbow on the table to eyeball him. "What are you talking about?" Somewhere lower, Clark's hand finds his thigh, fingers splayed wide with heat starting to seep through Slade's jeans.

"You forgot," Clark informs him, which is highly unlikely, Slade narrowing his eyes. "Or didn't put the pieces together." Self-satisfied, Clark spoons soup into his mouth, chewing for a long minute with amusement. "The yacht. I only remembered when we were talking last time about drinking." 

"The— what yacht." 

"Now who's memory is photographic." Clark murmurs. "You thought I was Bruce." 

At the table, Slade freezes, staring into those blue eyes and the joy there, Clark's fingers beginning to play with his zipper. _What._ "I…" He swallows. "That was _you?"_

Damn fucking right he'd forgotten about it. Years ago, on a cruise ship in the middle of fucking nowhere, and he'd assumed Bruce Wayne was a freak of nature with a drinking problem. Possibly some rich, poison-proof kid, immune to the effects of binge drinking and neurotoxins — the perfect heir for daddy's company. 

He doesn't know what he fucking thought, it was damn near fifteen years ago. 

"Yeah, that was me." 

Slade blinks, digesting the new information with a spoonful of soup. Good soup. Martha knows how to season. He chews thoughtfully, and then points his spoon dead-center of Clark's forehead. Clark smiles gently.

"You—" He bites his tongue. "You were _so_ drunk." He can hear it, crystal clear in his mind now, those slurred words. _Cool coshtoom._ Breaking Slade's sword like a toothpick with a little _ta-da._ What the fuck.

"I was." Clark ducks his head. "Not the point, Slade." 

"No, I think it is. Do your parents know? Maybe you should fill them in." Just like that, he returns to palming Clark's insistent hard-on, Clark stepping on his toes. "I think they'd like to know." 

"Son?" Johnathan tries, the two of them bewildered. It's an awfully good feeling, having the upper hand again, Slade getting comfortable in his rickety chair.

"Uh," Clark mumbles. Manages to look embarrassed even as his hips shift into the palm of Slade's hand. "Remember that ticket to the Caribbean I won?" He shrugs. 

Listening to Clark describe, in detail, the how's and why's of becoming drunk on a billionaire's yacht, complete with murder attempt, has got to rank high on Slade's favourite conversations. Possibly top spot. 

And throughout it all, he runs the tip of his shoe along the back of Clark's calf, his fingers featherlight over the outline of his cock. It's payback, he supposes, for leaving him high and dry last time. Could be worse. 

Eventually, they're all done with the soup, and Slade's snuck the dog at least two slices of sourdough dipped in minestrone soup between fielding prodding questions from Martha. 

He finds himself saying a lot more than he'd planned to, but it's worth it just for the mountain of stories Martha has at her disposal of raising a laser-eyed baby who can lift the fridge. Clark spends most of his meal sunken into his chair like he'd rather die than hear another word, the tips of his ears pink.

It goes well. Nobody's dead. They haven't even argued. Clark's hand stays on his thigh for the remainder of the evening.

It is — possibly — the calmest family dinner he's ever had. 

"I'll do the dishes," Clark insists, when Martha tries to clear them both off. "You've done enough. Thank you, Ma." 

She raises an eyebrow. Looks between the both of them, Clark's jaw twitching with the effort of keeping a straight face. "Get your boyfriend to help." 

"Not a boyfriend." Slade says, though it falls on deaf ears, Clark nodding furiously and Martha fixing him with a flat look. 

This fucking family. He rolls his eye. 

It's only once the both of them have cleared off, Martha to let the dog out and Johnathan to check what's on the television, that Clark bends forward and sets his head on the table. 

"Something wrong?" He asks lightly. 

Clark groans. "You drive me mad." 

"I make you hard, you mean." Slade gives him a last squeeze before withdrawing his hand entirely, Clark _whimpering._ "Your parent's seem nice." 

"I hate you." He murmurs. Kicks him under the table again. "When I said no sex, I meant—" 

"I know what you meant." He says, voice pitched low. "But you're hot when you're turned on." Slade spreads his thighs a little, lets off the building pressure on his cock, half-hard. "Haven't seen you like that in a while." 

"Just you wait 'till we're back in Metropolis." Clark mutters. "You'll be sorry." 

"Promises, promises." Slade grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yacht incident from Superman: American Alien #3 by popular demand. Also cause I love it. The Kansas Royals season is from 2005, in which they set a record for 106 losses. It was their third 100-loss season in four years.


	10. Chapter 10

They wash up in strangely companionable silence, Clark scrubbing in scalding water and Slade drying with a dishtowel. It takes them an embarrassing amount of time to find where everything belongs. 

Johnathan pops his head in to let Slade know he'll grab the fix for his car tomorrow, nevermind that Superman's standing right there and could fly them both in a heartbeat. Not that Slade would _let_ him, but still, the stupid car is the last thing on his mind. 

"Don't mind the spare room," Martha says, when she leads him upstairs. "It's been used for storage." 

He considers telling her he's slept in worst places, but decides better at Clark's raised eyebrow as he follows them up. He's been awfully quiet since dinner, in fact. It puts Slade on edge, having Clark lost in his own head. Generally, that doesn't end well. 

"It's fine." Slade replies, once they're all awkwardly standing outside of said room like a pack of lemmings. He thins his mouth. "Thank you." 

"Of course," Martha looks between the two of them for a long second, something pinched in her expression. "Give a shout if you need anything." 

He nods, and holds her gaze until she takes the hint and heads along to what must be the bedroom she shares with Johnathan. Clark lingers, leaning against the opposite wall. He chews his lip. 

They stare at each other for a long, tense moment, before Clark tips his head. "My bed's a single." Is what he says, leaving the rest implied. Slade swallows hard. 

"I think I can handle a night alone." 

Clark nods, eyes unfocused on a spot in the hardwood floors. It creaks when he shifts, settling against his bedroom door. "The guest bedroom has a double." He adds. And Slade, immediately, feels blood rise upwards to the sharp edges of his cheeks. He hopes the beard covers it. 

"Is that so." 

"The walls are pretty thin." Clark comments. He jerks his head down the hall, where Slade can hear the creak of a bed, Martha shutting the lamp off. "Everything makes noise." 

"Your point?" 

"My point is," Clark inhales, holds it for longer than most humans could bear, Slade's lungs burning in sympathy, caught on the same breath. The house creaks a little more. "I'd like to sleep with you." It's said so quietly, barely more than a movement of lips and the quiver in Clark's throat. 

"No shit," Slade snorts. It's far easier than the alternative, the idea sinking in his gut like a stone. 

"Just sleep." Clark adds, flicks those blue eyes up to the ceiling, then to Slade. Bites his lip again, teeth caught in soft flesh that Slade knows well. 

He leans into the door at his back, a firm presence. Braces against the twist of his stomach at the thoughts that conjures up, Clark's legs tangled with his, the warm press of his palm, perhaps Clark's soft hair tickling his jaw, wrapped up in each other. 

"I'm not saying no." He finally bites out, harsher than he expects. Wrenches the door handle and slips inside, feeling for all the world like the devil's at his heels. He's had years to control his heartbeat, but it's running away from him now, quick and jarring. 

Outside, the floor creaks. Clark's bedroom door opens with a whine of the hinges. Slade exhales through his teeth, staring at the room. 

Storage doesn't cover it, but he's hardly complaining. It's a bed, and a window, and that's all he needs. Doesn't even have clothes to sleep in, actually. With irritated fingers he peels out of his clothes, setting them on a small mountain of cardboard boxes. 

He pokes around in a few, just to pass the time as he hears Clark move around across the hall, finding nothing but dusty books and some second-hand clothes packed up for donation. It reminds him a little of Clark's storage closets in Metropolis, fit to burst. He turns the light off, and then flicks on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in dim light.

Slade peels his socks off, last minute, left in nothing but the boxers he came with, and then climbs into the bed with a huff. The damn thing creaks under his weight, like everything in the house, Slade shifting under the comforter out of sheer spite. 

Little flowers dot the edges of the comforter, a plain white to match the pillows. Slade picks at the threading, not quite able to tear his ears away from the psych-up pep talk Clark is giving himself in the bathroom. It would be cute, if Slade didn't feel nauseous. 

They've fucked each other half blind. Slept together in Clark's ruined bed. Had brunch. And yet, this simple act has him nervous like it's prom night all over again. 

Slade mashes his face into the pillow, his eyepatch digging in uncomfortably. "Fuck," he mutters. Debates peeling it off, the same moment Clark toes the door open, poking an unruly mop of hair through. 

"You okay?" 

"Do I look okay?" Slade snaps. He resists the urge to touch the area around his eye when that feels like a weakness. He's had enough of that today. 

Clark shuffles in. "You look tired." Down to boxers as well, he looks oddly human in the dim light, hair ruffled and shoulders relaxed, socks still on. It doesn't fill him with arousal as it usually does, eliciting a stranger emotion instead: _want._

Slade fists a hand under the pillow, digging his nails in. "Maybe because I drove all night." 

He comes around the bed, flicking off the lamp as he does, plunging them both in darkness. Somehow, that makes it worse, despite Slade's eye adjusting accordingly. He can see the hesitation before Clark slides in, hear the bated exhale. 

Slade resists the urge to move away. He's so warm under the covers. Clark keeps his distance, as much as is possible, and sets his head on the next pillow. 

It is, for lack of a better word, awkward. Silence descends, beyond the general groaning of the house, and Clark's shallow breaths. Slade feels physically incapable of taking in oxygen right then, his knuckles aching in the stuffing of his pillow. 

It feels like a fight, happening in the quietest way possible. Every sense treats it as such, trained on the minute movement of Clark's chest rising and falling, the dip of the mattress with his weight. The inches between them. Slade grits his teeth. 

He wishes it were easier. It had seemed that way, in Clark's apartment. 

Everything is annoyingly _real_ here. Easier to pretend when it's just them, locked up in Clark's apartment, nobody the wiser. It's crystalline now, and Slade gets the feeling the universe is laughing at him right then. 

He nearly leaves when Clark's hand settles on his hip, a knee-jerk that says _danger, run._ His palm is gentle, familiar, curving to the jut of his hip perfectly. Clark's swallow is audible in the room, a nervous motion. 

It takes more courage than he'd like to move, leaning back until Clark takes the hint and drags him closer by his middle. The move makes his heart jump, fucking traitor, and then he's too distracted by Clark's mouth at his neck to think beyond that furnace point of contact. 

Even if they'd kissed earlier, and once or twice since, it doesn't feel quite like now. Clark's gentle when he makes a trail from the bump of vertebrae to the junction of Slade's bare shoulder, slow like he's committing it to memory. Slade knows he sure is, just in case it never happens again. 

He hates that thought, another weakness. Clark teases them out of him effortlessly, a secret fucking superpower he forgot to mention. 

"I thought of the perfect name for your fish." Clark comments. Slade grunts, blinking into the darkness of the room, stacks of boxes and old, creaking walls. "Makes sense he should be named after you." 

"You're naming it Slade?" He asks, incredulous enough to laugh. 

"No," he admonishes gently. Kisses Slade's skin a little more. "I'm naming him Will." 

Before he thinks, Slade elbows him, Clark laughing warmly. 

"Don't like it?" 

"Don't fucking make fun of me." Slade grumbles. When he settles again, it's with his hand laced over Clark's, acutely aware of the heat pooling there. 

Clark hums, a low noise right in his ear. "I wasn't." He nips the curve of Slade's ear. "I know better than that." 

"Hm." Slade huffs. What follows is not a companionable silence, like washing dishes, or making out on a beaten up car. He's still unbearably tense, waiting for the killing blow, waiting for whatever's next to throw his head into a tailspin. The anticipation nearly chokes him, cloying in his throat.

He's fucking tired, all right. 

Clark squeezes his hip. "He's doing good. Socializing." 

"Killed anyone yet?" 

"Not yet, no." Clark traces his tongue over an old, faded scar. "Getting used to things. Still a little prickly." 

"Why do I get the feeling we're not talking about the fish." 

Against him, Clark moves closer, practically plastered to his back. One thigh settles over Slade's to really drive home the point that he's trapped, wrapped up in Clark's warmth and the steady wall of his chest. 

"You can feel what you like," he sighs, "you going to sleep?" 

"Would if I could breathe." Slade says, and makes no moves to pull away. Clark's breath tickles the hair tied at his nape, nuzzling in. 

"Goodnight, Slade." He states, amusement there. Slade squeezes his hand, lifting his head when Clark moves to slide his arm under their now shared pillow. When he settles down again, it's incredibly firm, and somehow that feels far more comfortable than the softness of before. 

"Night," he murmurs, mouth twisted. Burrows into Clark's arm a little further, and makes a last minute decision to pull his hand along until it's curled around Slade's middle. In the morning, he'll blame it on the exhaustion. 

And he is exhausted. It's been a hell of a week. A hell of a _day_. Slade can keep up with the best of them, but he'd be lying if he said sleep didn't sound wonderful, tiredness tugging at his vision until he's out like a light. 

If he'd held on a little longer, listened to that alarm bell in his head rather than sinking into Clark's inviting warmth, he might have heard the whisper-quiet, achingly gentle, "I think I'm falling in love with you, Slade Wilson." 

Clark settles in close, mouth pressed to his shoulder, and tries to find peace with that fact. 

* * *

In the morning, Slade wakes to a warm weight across his chest and Clark's silky hair tickling his jaw, their skin warmed by sunlight streaming between the curtains. Caught between sleep and wakeful, he can silently admit it's the calmest he's felt in a long time. Maybe ever.

Clark nuzzles into his collarbone when Slade runs careful hands through his hair, not quite willing to break the spell just yet. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for uh, accidental use of blood as lube.

"You want to see something?" Clark asks, apropos of absolutely nothing, sitting at the kitchen table with a face that spells trouble. Slade narrows his eye, catching the amusement in Clark's lips. 

"Depends what it is." They're alone, for once, Johnathan off in what constitutes 'town', and Martha had bustled off with some mumbled thing about taking care of the farm. Alone, it's awfully quiet, and Slade can't stop thinking about this morning. 

"You'll like it." He says, mouth tipped up. He'd looked so good in bed with Slade. Unguarded. Hair ruffled from Slade's wandering fingers, every inch of skin practically glowing. "Trust me?" 

Slade rolls his eye. "I'm here, aren't I?" Getting out of bed had been a herculean feat, and stopping his hands from finding Clark's skin had been even harder as they'd gotten dressed. 

"You are," Clark agrees, voice turned soft. 

Slade raises an eyebrow. "You're being awfully cryptic." He pushes breakfast around on his plate, leftovers from when Martha had cooked at a reasonable time. It was gone noon now, at least. "You gonna show me, or do I need to answer three riddles first." 

"I'm pretty bad at riddles," he laughs, "so how about you come with me, and I'll show you." Clark finishes off his coffee in one smooth motion, Slade rising to empty his plate and dunk it in the sink for later. 

He can't help thinking of Midwestern horror, and all the things that tend to lurk in rust-red barns out in the middle of nowhere. 

Clark offers him an easy smile when they leave, leading him on a well-worn path through the backyard. Sunlight assaults him almost immediately, Clark turning towards it like a sunflower while Slade squints against the heat, the air still and dense. 

He really kind of hates Kansas. Clark definitely doesn't, mouth curved as he takes in the sun, blue eyes catching just right to reflect like a cat. He shoves his hands in his pockets, turning to regard Slade with amusement. 

"Something happen to your sunglasses?" 

"You know damn well something did." Slade grumbles, taking a few longer strides to catch up. 

The barn isn't far, a looming structure beside a stretching field of corn that seems to never fucking end, melding into the next farm along. Clark pulls the double doors open with a squeal, rusted metal protesting, stepping inside with a tentative smile.

The first thing he notes is the _dust_. Slade's no stranger to shit air quality, but _Christ_ , there's enough hay in here to feed an army of cattle. Clark flicks on a light, the electrics humming audibly, the large space bathed in a warm glow.

"You okay?" 

"Fine." Slade says, ignoring the insistent urge to cough. Fucking farms. He pokes a few things, old machinery and a half pulled apart tractor, the makings of an engine mounted on a scratched wooden desk. Clark leaves him to it, heading further in, and only draws Slade's attention when there's another squeal of metal. 

Everything echoes here, apparently, because he hears Clark's quiet, "Ah-hah." like it's spoken directly into his ear. Slade draws in close to find Clark crouched over a cellar door, peering down at—

If Slade is being honest, it looks like a toy. Looks an awful lot like a gas station kids ride, complete with tacky paint on the outside. A fucking _spaceship_. 

Perfectly clear of all dust, despite residing in an unused cellar, the metal shines where it catches the light. A small glass pane shows him the inside, incredibly small, just enough for one child. One infant. 

Slade swallows hard. "That's..." 

"Yeah," Clark murmurs, fond. "It brought me here." There's barely enough room when Clark slips down beside the ship, reaching out to trace a finger over the hood. "My parents didn't know what to do with it, so it's stayed here all these years." 

"Very secure." Slade comments. 

Clark laughs. "Worked so far, hasn't it?" He touches it almost reverently, fingertips light when he traces the curve of the glass. A smile lights up his face when he looks at Slade, an eyebrow raised. "You coming down?" 

"I don't think there's room." He mutters, but comes closer anyway, dropping into the narrow space. It looks man-made, bricked on all sides, the floor simply dirt under his boots. Up close, he can see the inside a little better, the pocket of fabric inside where Clark would have been. 

He doesn't understand it, not even close. It's technology beyond even what he's seen, capable of keeping Clark alive all that way, even through what must have been a rough landing. Slade reaches out, gauging Clark's expression before he touches, the metal cool against his palm. 

"Why are you showing me this?" Maybe he's imagining it, but the metal feels _strange_ , a texture he's never quite felt before. 

"I don't know." Clark shrugs. "Felt right." He looks down to the ship again, but Slade finds himself looking at Clark instead. The curve to his mouth, shoulders hunched in just to fit, childlike wonder in his eyes. 

Right then, all he wants to do is press their mouths together. He chews the inside of his cheek, and curses the ship between them. 

They linger there for a while longer, Slade committing the strange little ship to memory when it feels so important. So intrinsic to understanding the man in front of him. Clark has to give him a hand out, pulling him up with a firm grip that lands them both incredibly close, Clark's mouth quirked and his eyes bright like Slade's never quite seen them. 

"Fancy meeting you here." Slade murmurs, earning himself a blush. Clark locks up the ship again, nothing more than some steel doors and a padlock hiding the world's biggest secret. 

Slade watches in silence, not quite sure how he feels being trusted with that, on top of everything else. It's so much. _Clark_ is so much. And he somehow makes it seem so easy. Slade wishes he agreed, and shoves the thought from his mind. 

A problem for another day. 

"What's upstairs?" He jerks his head toward the rickety staircase, little string lights wrapped around the banister. 

"Uh," Clark rubs his neck. "Not much. I used to spend a lot of time up there."

"So it's full of things you're embarrassed about." Slade surmises, and then promptly takes the stairs two at a time. 

What he finds isn't particularly exciting. It's no spaceship in the basement. But it still feels like a punch to the stomach, taking in the small living space that's barely been touched. 

A mis-matched stack of books, old algebra homework, a dusty glasses case. Stacks of hay squished between, and old boots, posters taped up on the walls. A little telescope, pointing out of the large, padlocked window. 

Clark follows behind, turning a few interesting shades of red as Slade comes closer, tracing a hand over the telescope. 

"Stargazing?" 

"Uh, yeah." He mumbles. "Pa used to do it with me." 

"Cute." Slade murmurs. He picks up a book at random, a dog-eared copy of _The Grapes of Wrath._ Flips through it leisurely just to see Clark squirm in the corner of his sight. Sets it down on the little rickety desk, poking the collection of knick-knacks there, all small pieces of Clark's life. 

He knows if he went home, there wouldn't be anything quite like this. Not even close. 

Slade moves on, studying the posters taped up, creased at the corners. "Can I ask you something?" 

"Sure," Clark says, almost eager. Slade keeps his eyes on the posters. 

"You ever fucked up here?" 

He wishes he could see whatever's happening to Clark's face right then. The noise alone is _fantastic_ , caught between a laugh and a cough but more strangled, embarrassed. 

"Um, no." Clark finally splutters out. "My parents could come in at any time." 

"Isn't that half the fun?" He asks, pivoting on the spot with a lazy smile. "They might see." 

"Slade." 

"Mm?" 

He frowns slightly, trying for stern. Doesn't work, in Slade's humble opinion. "I'm not fucking you in the barn." 

"Oh really?" Slade tilts his head. Clark doesn't move, but his expression flickers, wavering. Yeah. That's what he thought. Slade reaches up, untying his hair, raising an eyebrow. "I think you are." 

"Slade." 

He hums. Steps closer, and watches Clark lean in, a barely-there movement. "Yeah, Clark?" Two more steps and they're as close as can be, toe-to-toe, hip-to-hip. All that's left is their mouths. 

"I will throw you out of the barn window if my parents see." Clark says, a little bitten-off thing. Slade grins. 

"Look forward to it." 

The first touch is hesitant. Nervous. Just a brush of fingers to his hip, so similar to the night before, settling there after a long moment. Slade slips his hand over Clark's, squeezing. 

He leans into the next touch, Clark's fingers sinking into his hair, the grip tightening moment by moment. Slade grins and moves in to kiss, Clark opening up to him with a sigh. He's started to lose count of how many times they've done this, the kissing and the fucking both, and it wasn't that long ago he last tasted Clark, but it feels just as new as ever. 

Feels good, to slide his own hands into Clark's hair and press them together every way he possibly can. Tugs him in close until their noses bump, Clark laughing breathily, a sound that goes right to his cock along with the moan that follows. 

What starts out as gentle turns firmer, Clark fighting back to lick into Slade's mouth, to map him out and bite marks into his mouth. Eventually, the kisses move, dragging across his cheek to suckle on a spot right under his jaw that has Slade's hands fumbling for his belt. 

"Fuck," he mumbles, Clark humming in agreement. Once his own belt is undone he gets to work on Clark's, half his brain focused on the scrape of nails across his neck, Clark's hand broad and warm.

If he'd thought he wanted it before, it's tenfold now. Every sense struggles to find the right spot to focus. The hand at his hip, or the heated skin that he grips, Clark's mouth on the shell of his ear, the heavy breath that skirts across his skin. He feels fucking _dizzy_ with it, and jerks Clark off clumsily. 

Clark nips his ear again, a sharp point of contact. "Did you miss this?" 

Slade groans. 

"Missed your fucking cock in me," he growls. "Hurry up." Clark laughs, a quiet noise right in his ear, rich with sound. Letting go to remove the shirt goes against everything Slade stands for, frankly, but he does, gratified when Clark's hands begin exploring in rough, greedy holds. 

Every touch is firm, heavy-handed and insatiable, and pretty damn annoying when he can't do the same. Clark's hips move in shallow thrusts, Slade gripping him tightly. 

"The wall?" Slade asks, lets his eyes slip shut when Clark bites his shoulder and sucks a mark over a scar. 

"I was thinking the floor." 

"Fuck," Slade mutters. Yeah. Floor sounds good. Anywhere sounds good, actually. Anything that gets him as close as he possibly can, when it feels like forever since they last did this. "Okay." 

About twenty sets of hands fall on him all of a sudden, Clark's fingers flitting over his skin, indecisive and hungry. Slade kicks off his boots and shucks his pants in one hurried movement, sending a glare Clark's way until he does the same, baring miles of tanned skin. 

Slade drinks in the sight, something twisting in his gut to mix with the arousal there. _Did you miss this?_ It's an uncomfortable thought, spearing right through him with uncanny precision. 

"Well?" He asks, voice thick. "You going to fuck me or what?" Clark's head tilts, eyes narrowing slightly before he draws near, almost predatory when he pushes into Slade's space, all those hands back on his skin to squeeze bruises into his thigh as he's _moved._

It's quick and unsettling how fast he's pinned to the floor, Clark on top, Slade's cheek pressed to rough hardwood. Gives him a perfect view of Clark's old sneakers and a rusted baseball bat discarded in a corner and not much more. Clark's fingers weave into his hair, tugging back hard, and Slade groans.

"No lube," Clark comments lightly. Despite that, there's a wet _pop_ followed by Clark's thick fingers at his hole, pressing in. 

"When have we _ever_ used lube." Slade points out. Tries to relax against the intrusion. "I think I'll live without the Princess treatment." To make his point, he grinds down as best he can, edging on those fingers until he feels them slide deeper. 

"Fair point."

Slade grunts, leaning into it, taking it for as long as he can. Clark's gone quiet again, just the sound of their heavy breaths and the slip of Slade's knee on dusty floor, a hiss of discomfort when Clark curls his fingers. 

He never quite thought he'd miss pain this much. _This_ kind of pain, every shade of it familiar by now. As familiar as the man who gives it to him. When Clark pulls free to suck on a third finger, Slade's toes curl, and when he enters again it punches air from his lungs. Every movement draws a familiar reaction, each note nauseating and arousing in equal measure. 

He digs his nails into the floor, splinters pricking his skin, and nearly moans when Clark's fingers hurriedly withdraw to slick up his cock even slightly. 

"Fuck," Clark mumbles, breathless, and then he's on him, over and around him, heavy and blistering warm. The crown of his cock presses against Slade, insistent. "Missed you." 

"I—" Slade gasps, entirely cut off by a wounded noise when Clark sinks in and doesn't stop, not for all of Slade's trembling muscles or the protests of his insides. 

Pain lances through his middle as Clark bottoms out, pressed flush against him. If he could make any further noises, he fucking _would_ , too choked out by the formidable cock inside of him to even breathe. Clark's fingers tighten in his hair, holding him still, keeping him contained as Slade fights not to writhe. 

Distantly, he hears a soothing noise, Clark's mouth pressed to his ear. Even his breath is hot, but not even fucking close to the nerves inside of him roaring like an inferno. Slade's moan scrapes out of his throat like broken glass. 

"Got you," Clark murmurs. Those fingers in his hair pet him gently, the hand at his hip squeezing until his muscles go numb. "Missed you. I've got you." 

Slade moans, vision turned a little blurry.

Far— _far_ too soon, Clark moves, sets a glacial pace that ensures Slade feels every thick inch as it abuses his insides. The noise that he makes is halfway between pleasure and agony, mixed into his gut terribly, so heady he can't think beyond fumbling for Clark's hand and digging his nails in. 

"Fuck." He growls. Screws his eyes shut tight and sees fireworks, his cock aching uselessly between his spread thighs. Reaching for it seems damn near impossible, every muscle locked tight as Clark rolls his hips forward again, a delicious pressure against his prostate. 

The pace stays that way — slow, torturous, almost entirely for Clark's benefit. Drives him close to mad, every noise punched out of abused lungs, all with Clark's smooth voice in his ear, progressively deeper, lower, filthier. 

He's too focused on that, on the hands bruising him and the sweat-damp skin that sticks to his, that he doesn't expect Clark to circle his cock and jerk him off in a feather-light touch. The perfect contrast to the cock splitting him open, Clark's fingers are gentle when he squeezes the tip. Slade _whines_ , not quite able to buck forward. 

Clark kisses the shell of his ear, brushing strands of sweat-damp hair from his forehead. "Did you miss this?" And God, fuck, that _voice_ — Slade does buck this time, teeth grit. 

"You—" He cuts off. Grips Clark's wrist tightly. "You know I did." 

"See?" Clark hums, sounds nothing like _Superman_ when he could make Slade's insides melt with his voice alone. "That wasn't so hard." He curls Slade's hair between his fingers, pulls until it hurts, lets go just to press his cheek into the floor twice as hard. The next words are quiet but Slade hears them like a shout, twisting his stomach into pleasurable knots, "Doing so well for me. Doing so good, baby." 

He punctuates that last word with a roll of his hips that is _all_ pleasure, enough to send Slade over the edge with a sob, coming into Clark's fist feverishly. He trembles in his hold until Clark eventually finds his release too, Slade too worked over to do much more than slump into the floor and stare at those sneakers for a long second. 

Clark kisses under his jaw, right over a faded, thin scar. "So good." He rumbles. Strokes through Slade's hair gently, an almost soothing motion when his insides are still on fire in the best possible way. "Hold still." 

A laugh almost bubbles up, then promptly dies as Clark straightens up. Cool air shocks his back, skin warm and damp. One large hand settles on his ass, Clark's fingers dug in deep and distracting as he pulls out. Droplets of liquid hit the dusty floor quietly. Distantly, Slade realises he's bleeding and finds he doesn't mind so much. 

Worth it.

"Shit." Clark murmurs. "Slade—" 

"It'll heal." He garbles. Feels a little scrambled right then, too sore to move. 

"I didn't realise—" Clark cuts off, nearly ruining the best fuck of Slade's long life. "Slade." 

He hums, eye shut tightly. The hand at his ass squeezes again before sliding up his spine to grip his shoulder, fingers splayed wide. "You called me baby." He comments. 

Clark shifts beside him, painfully careful when he tugs Slade onto his side. The floor is cool, at least, soothing the redness of his skin. "Heat of the moment."

"Sure." Slade mumbles, shakey when he lifts his head to settle it on Clark's outstretched arm. 

"You sure you're okay?" 

_"You_ sure you're okay?" He mutters. "Blood on your dick." The very last thing he needs is _concern,_ when the knots in his stomach have finally come undone. Too tired to keep it up, for now. Light fingers card through his hair, oddly similar to this morning, and that thought doesn't have anxiety choking him up for once. 

"I think I'll live." Clark replies. He sighs heavily, pleased. Nuzzles Slade's neck. "That was good. Need to scrub the floor." 

Slade snorts. "Do it naked?" He receives warm kisses to the back of his neck, a hint of teeth. 

"What for?" 

"Nice view." Is all he says, not quite sure where he's going with that when everything feels a little far-away and pleasant. He'll probably have to get up soon. Being thrown from the barn window doesn't sound pleasant right now. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weird chapter this time, but things are gonna get back to normal after here.... hopefully.

Despite Clark's fears, they don't get caught. Slade gets dressed long enough for them to head back to the main house before promptly stripping off again and hopping into a scalding shower. Something that turns out to be incredibly difficult with Clark's wandering hands involved. 

He kicks Clark out after the third grope and finishes up in silence, careful with his tender insides and the forming scrapes on his hips. The damage might even stick around for a while. 

With new clothes on, and the sweat and dust of the barn washed away, he feels a little better — far more able to put up with twenty minutes conversation as Johnathan tops up the tank and has the alternator belt fitted. 

"They like you." Clark comments, some time in the afternoon. He looks particularly comfortable on the porch, leaning back on his palms and soaking up the sun. At ease. 

"They like _you._ " Slade snorts. "You weren't here, I'd get the boot." They're incredibly warm people, for the most part. But he can see the steel under there too, the same vein that Clark has. 

"You did try to kill them." Clark points out. Sighs, and tips his head back, thick lashes catching the sunlight. "Sorry." 

"I told you not to apologise." 

"Yeah," Clark hums. "Ma wouldn't have given you the good bowls at dinner, anyway. If she didn't like you." 

There's not much he can say to that, when Clark's obviously deluded himself, so Slade simply lies back and lets the quiet wash over him. It'll be time to go soon, anyway. 

He spent far longer here than he ever thought he would. And, apparently, he has some Luthor business to attend to. 

Heading back up to Billy's is probably a no-go. His stuff is there, but that's hardly anything. Weapons and ammunition mostly, the spare suit. Slade's few personal belongings and a handful of burner phones. Easily replaced, or shipped out, and that brings him to an uncomfortable reality. 

Clark's expecting him back in Metropolis. 

He frowns, and watches the fields sway a little in the breeze, and considers how to say what he's feeling — the trepidation, and the sudden clench of his muscles, and the urge to leave. 

Kansas had been a reprieve, even if he did get his ass beaten by Superman. That was easy. That was a regular Tuesday compared to the knot in his chest just _thinking_ about Metropolis, and the annoyingly complicated mess he's found himself in. 

"What're you thinking?" Clark murmurs. 

Slade chews his tongue. "All my shit is at Wintergreen's." 

"You never did say who that was." Clark replies, ignoring the obvious distraction. Neither of them are thinking about Slade's fucking bags. 

"My broker." Slade supplies. Chews his tongue a little more. "A friend." 

"Sounds like he knows you well." 

He could scoff, say something a little melodramatic and far more like Rose, _nobody knows me_. He swallows hard. "Yeah." Nods once. "I'm fucking baking out here. Are we going?" 

"I'm coming with?" Clark cracks an eye open, eyebrow raised. 

Slade pauses. "I assumed." And he _had_ , which was stupid. Clark was still angry, even if it had mellowed out. Slade sure as hell didn't need a backseat driver. The car was a pile of shit that would give out by the time they reach Dodge City. 

Lots of reasons not to. 

Clark's mouth twitches. "I accept." 

* * *

"What are you doing?" 

The car protests as Slade crawls into the backseat. "Sleeping." 

"I'm driving?" Clark pokes his head into the drivers side. "This is your car." 

"This is some midwestern schmucks car with shiny new plates." Slade sighs. He's over six foot, and the backseat is _not_ , but he can make it work. "Some of us get tired after having our insides destroyed."

"I— I apologised for that." Clark stammers. 

"Not complaining." Slade lifts his head, catching the particular shade of red that lights up Clark's skin. "But I'm tired. And I'm not watching Kansas pass me by _again_ , it nearly killed me the first time." 

Clark shuffles into the car silently, the whole thing creaking under their combined weight. It should be condemned, really. He's surprised it even has seatbelts. 

"You're gonna sleep the entire trip."

"What, were you hoping for something else?" Slade leans back. Shifts around on the cracked leather seats and tries to find somewhere close to comfortable, both feet up as well. "A romantic roadtrip, perhaps?" 

"Some company." Clark responds. 

"Figured you'd be sick of me by now." He murmurs, a little amused. Billy's limit is about six hours, if they're not fighting. Clark jangles the keys, getting it started with a protest and then every seat in the damn thing starts vibrating. 

Slade reaches up blindly and cranks the window open, warm air drifting in over him. He's slept in worse places, so long as Clark doesn't reveal any bad road rage habits. 

"Take the corners gentle, will you?" He mumbles. Shoves one arm over his eyes, the other down into the footwell, and rests his knees against the back of the seats. It'll do. 

"Wouldn't want you getting grumpy." Clark snorts. 

* * *

When he wakes, it's not to the bustle of Dodge City. Or even the bustle of _anywhere._ It's dead silent, and dark out, floodlights nearly blinding when he lifts his head. 

Parking lot. Motel. Crappy flickering sign, advertising free coffee and by-the-hour bookings. 

"Classy." Slade comments, his voice rough with sleep. Clark's hand withdraws, and Slade realises dimly that's what woke him. A light touch to his abdomen, and Clark's soft voice. 

"There wasn't anywhere better." He replies. Looks embarrassed to even _be_ here, the car's engine cut and the two of them drowned in lowlight. "I assume you have money?" 

"You don't?" 

"It's cash only." He admits. "And no, I didn't bring money with me, while confronting you on your contract." 

Slade frowns. "You brought us to a motel that only deals with cash." 

"I am well aware what it's main purpose is." 

He blinks. "You brought me to a motel full of prostitutes and drug dealers." The car creaks when he pushes up, every muscle protesting. More tired than he thought, and the twinge in his gut is familiar by now, a sharp lance that reminds him of the barn and Clark's claiming hands all over his skin. 

And now, they're at a motel that's seen more action and money than Slade could ever hope to.

He looks awfully innocent in the drivers seat, the tips of his ears tinged pink. "You looked tired. Thought you'd appreciate a bed." 

"I'd appreciate you driving through the night." He mutters. Scrubs a hand through his hair, untangling the white strands. "And not making me pay for it." 

"I think your wallet can take the hit, Slade." The car door squeals when Clark climbs out, and then again when he shuts it. Feels like a hot poker through his ears, if he's being honest, and Slade takes a long moment to gather himself before he climbs out. 

Once he is out, it looks a lot more depressing than previously thought. Rust stains drip from the gutters, and there's a particularly homey looking pile of garbage on one side of the building. A few cars litter the parking lot, all looking about as shit as Slade's ride, which doesn't make him feel much better. 

Shitholes aren't exactly foreign to him, but he just wants a _quiet_ night. He won't get that here, that much is obvious. 

"Sorry." Clark shrugs. "It was the only thing I've seen in hours." 

"Yeah, whatever." Slade sighs. Rubs his eyes until he feels slightly more awake. "This'll do." When he looks, there's an amused smile teasing Clark's face where he leans against the car. 

"I promise I won't let any cockroaches touch you." He says and then breaks on a laugh, only making Slade's frown deepen. 

"Fuck you." He mutters. Pops the trunk and grabs his things, including the handful of cash he'd brought for an occasion such as this. He hadn't exactly imagined Clark involved, and it's a strange thought now. 

He sticks out like a sore thumb, button-up shirt and nice, ironed jeans. Bright smile and all charm when he leans on the front desk, chatting away somehow despite the receptionist sitting behind bulletproof glass, entirely bored. 

He tunes it out and instead takes in the faded wallpaper. The cross on the wall, a little crooked. The worn-in entryway and buzzing vending machine at the end of the hall. The myriad noises — fucking and arguing, thundering heartbeats and slow, unconscious breaths, a half-dozen televisions chattering away. 

Clark's steady heartbeat, curiously at home here, as surprising as anything Clark does. 

"—one double." The kid says, and Slade blinks back into reality with a start. 

"What was that?" 

"I said, we've got one double." The kid repeats, barely looking above twenty, and annoyed at even repeating himself. "You want it or not?" He flicks a look between the two of them, like he can't quite figure out what their vice is. 

Slade frowns. 

"That'll be fine." Clark says, and shoots Slade an inscrutable look. "We'll take it." 

If possible, Slade frowns more. Sharing is fine, they did it just last night. But there is a part of him that is screaming right then for some fucking space. 

He pays in silence, and lets Clark take the key, following him along to where their room awaits. 

"I'll take the floor." He says. Means it, right until Clark catches his gaze, concerned. 

"You're not sleeping in the bed?" 

"Be my guest, but I'd rather not catch hepatitis." Clark shoulders the door open, letting Slade enter first, and the sight that awaits him isn't actually that bad, if he ignores the weird dark patch on the carpet. 

At least it has carpet, he supposes. 

Sheets look clean, at least. And the curtains block out any shred of light, guaranteeing absolute privacy. 

"You okay?" 

Slade shrugs and drops his bag in the same motion, kicking it under the bed. "Fine. Tired." The bed isn't so bad, enough space for the two of them at least. He draws the curtains and then ties up his hair, mostly buying time. 

While he does that, Clark kicks off his shoes, and shimmies out of his jeans. Normally, that would be a pretty good thing. 

"Sounds like someone woke up on the wrong side of the car." Clark comments lightly. 

"I'm just tired." He huffs. Ignores the obvious show Clark makes of unbuttoning his shirt, a creased wifebeater underneath that sticks to every muscle and contour. "It's been a long week." He adds, and hopes they can leave it there — understated and close enough to Slade's comfort zone that he can live with it. 

Clark hums, settling on top of the comforter. "It has." Offers Slade a gentle smile that draws him in, Slade placing one knee onto the bed to kick off his shoes, working on his belt with numb hands. "You want some space." 

"Who wouldn't." He replies, a little more gruff than intended. 

"Fair." He nods, and watches Slade work out of his clothes, down to nothing but borrowed underwear and a couple scars. "I can take the floor, if you want, instead." One cursory look to the carpet tells them both that's a no-go, stained and worn down by dozens of footprints. 

He doesn't particularly want to think what's happened in the bed, either. 

"It's fine." Slade sighs. Unties his hair again, running a hand through it to work out the knots. "I'm just going to sleep." 

"Okay," Clark murmurs. Then promptly stretches out, taking up three quarters of the bed with one well-muscled arm. Slade squints. "You can be grumpy and cuddle at the same time." 

"What part of 'space' do you not understand?" 

"I understand it very well." Clark wiggles his fingers. "Probably been in it more than you." Slade groans, looking to the ceiling and regrets it when he spots the faded, rust-red marks of blood spots. 

"You are insufferable." Despite that, and Slade's building irritation, he climbs in. No way are they getting under the covers, so it's almost welcomed when Slade is tugged into position, Clark draped across his back. 

After a second, Clark flicks off the bedside lamp, letting the darkness creep in. The muscle of his arm is warmly forgiving, almost comfortable now that Slade is blessedly horizontal again. Better than the car, at least. 

He sighs. Clark imitates the noise, his mouth curling into a smile against the top of his head. 

"I will shoot you. They won't even check on you here." He mumbles. Stares at Clark's outstretched hand in the dark, fingers relaxed. "I'll do it." 

Clark kisses the top of his head. "Or you could just tell me how you're feeling." 

"Nothing." Slade states. "I'm feeling nothing." 

"Sounds like bullshit." 

"You'd know." 

Clark shifts. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothing, Christ." Slade scrubs at his face in the dark, and considers taking the floor. Might not even smell that bad. Clark would be a respectable distance, and Slade could fucking _sleep_ without feeling all kinds of tangled things in his chest. "Not everything has to mean something." 

"You can just say…" Clark hums, flexes his fingers, and Slade rolls his eye in the dark as he waits. "You're freaking out." 

"I'm _not—"_

 _"I'm_ freaking out." Clark cuts in. "I have no clue what I'm doing. I'm in a motel, cuddling with a mercenary, and I'm overdue on like, three articles right now. Slade, I'm freaked out. And it's okay." 

"We're not cuddling." He says, which is immediately refuted by Clark's leg sliding over his hip, his thigh heavy and warm. Something about the silence feels disappointed, almost, and he fucking _knows—_ it's fucking unfair, the expectation for Slade to explain anything, when he barely knows what he's feeling in the first place. 

Clark hums, a quiet rumble that Slade feels through his spine. 

"I've never done this before." Slade bites out. Each word tastes like ash, dry and coating his gums. "So forgive me if I need some fucking space." 

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" He leans over, pressing a kiss to Slade's temple. Right then, it's almost too much to bear, the tenderness that Clark uses on him sometimes. 

He screws his eyes shut tight. "Goodnight, Clark. No more talking." 

The mouth at his temple lingers, Clark pressing another open-mouthed kiss there. "Goodnight, Slade." 

Despite that, he stays awake until he's absolutely sure Clark's unconscious. The deep, steady breaths are comfortable, trusting in his presence. 

Slade shifts against Clark's body curled around his, and then reaches out to clasp his hand, weaving their fingers together in the dark. 


	13. Chapter 13

Slade wakes slowly. Not all at once, or because of anything in particular. Just a slow rise to consciousness that he doesn't often get, and some still-sleeping part of his head wishes he could stay right there, warm and unbothered, the rest of the world far away. 

Gentle fingers push the hem of his shirt up to trace over warm skin, mindless patterns that nearly send Slade back to sleep. And then the fingers trail lower, gently asking for permission against the waistband of his boxers. 

Slade makes a noise, intending it to be words but it only comes out as a hum. Clark's hand slips in, and now he's aware of more. The warm mouth at the junction of his neck, silk-smooth hair tickling his jaw. Clark's body curled around his, not quite pressing him into the bed. 

Warm fingers wrap around his cock and he's surprised to find it hard and waiting, a soft wave of pleasure when Clark squeezes. Slade exhales shakily. 

"Morning," Clark mumbles. Sounds just as suspended in sleep as Slade. Caught right where nothing feels real, and Slade can let out a breathless moan when Clark strokes his skin. 

At the tip of his cock, Clark tightens his grip, barely a fraction of strength in his palm and it's still enough to make Slade's mind go blank. Clark withdraws his hand, Slade realising dimly that it's to wet his palm. 

"Fuck," he mumbles, this time making sense at least. Clark rumbles in agreement and rubs a circle into the underside of his crown, Slade's hips making an involuntary thrust. "Feels good." 

He wishes he had the energy to open his eyes and take in the sight. He wishes he had half the mind to reach back and grip Clark's insistent cock, that they were somewhere else with less sketchy lube and far more space, and maybe he could guide Clark in, let him sink in and feel every second of it. 

Slade rocks into Clark's hand and digs his teeth into his lip, more for a distraction than any real pain. It's never been quite like this, even when they were drunk and happy, even when Clark was calm and methodical. Even when Slade was too worked over to lift his head, let alone speak. 

_Gentle_ is the only word for it, each stroke slow and caring, the motion cutting him open from his fluttering abdomen to his quivering throat. Slade bites on a whimper, nearly punched in the chest by the soothing noise Clark makes. Warm and against the shell of his ear, incredibly close and intimate. 

"I've got you," Clark nips his ear. Swipes a thumb over the head of Slade's cock to keep him wet, and sinks his fist down around him like a grounding force. "So good for me." 

He makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a growl, throat still sleep-rough. _"Clark."_ Rolls his hips as good as he's able, too lazy to really chase the pleasure Clark offers, and finds himself hesitantly tugged closer. 

Clark curls around him perfectly, the well of his hips just right to feel the thick line of his cock and every ridge of muscle. His legs slide between Slade's, effectively trapping him and he couldn't be happier about that, leaning into it tiredly. 

Lets Clark touch him for the longest time, each brush of fingers explorative. Learning the curve of his hip, and the bump of a scar in the crease of his thigh. Feels unbearably vulnerable when Clark's hand slips lower and cups his balls, the palm of his hand damp and hot. Slade pants for it, absolutely sure his cock is dripping with need by now, and he's pretty sure he could come just from this — just touches. 

It shouldn't be this _good_. Purely good, and nothing else. Slade hasn't come close to that in a long time, and there's an unwelcome thought that drifts to the surface above all others as Clark begins to stroke him again.

Things like this aren't meant for Slade's skin. The good that Clark can give shouldn't be given to Slade. 

He doesn't deserve it. 

Right on time, Clark twists his hand just right, a simple action that brings Slade undone so slowly, an orgasm that feels like it comes in waves rather than a blinding flash. Slade moans, and buries his mouth into the pillow, fumbling to hold onto Clark's wrist. Keeps his hand there and bucks into it, every groan wet and clawed out of him. 

Clark holds him through it, and keeps holding him. Kisses his shoulder in reverent ways, entirely good ways, and Slade is too tired and too torn up to question it any more. Even when he's rough, even when he makes Slade bleed and ache, even when he makes him want to run and never come back — he's always good. 

Good to Slade, in his own way. 

Every touch is exactly what he needs, even now. Heat pricks at his eye, and the eyepatch digs uncomfortably into his cheek, Slade's face buried in his pillow. Clark mouths at his shoulder sleepily. In the dark, his vision obscured by rough fabric and every inch of his body cradled in some way, Slade finds his throat tasting like salt, not quite managing to hold back words. 

"I'm not good at this." He swallows, his tongue a lead roadblock. "You're going to hate me. One day." He admits. Each word brings him that little bit closer to something he hasn't done in years, in decades. 

Didn't do it with Joey. Not with Grant. _Couldn't_ do it, and it's fucking terrifying to find his eye watering now, all the ways in which Clark turns him inside out and bares his ugliest sides. He bites his tongue. Breathes hard. 

"I'm not good at this, and one day you're going to get tired of waiting. And you'll hate me. There's no getting better from the kind of person I am." Slade inhales, feels nauseated, how quickly something truly good can be destroyed by him alone. Clark stays quiet, but his teeth press against his skin, light and careful. "But I— I'm, fuck, I'm trying to _say—"_

And everything stops there. All the words and syllables and the oxygen in Slade's chest burns up, swallowed whole by a fire. So close, and he fucking _chokes_ , always the _same—_

Clark's lips drag against his skin, curved into a barely-there smile. "I want to try, too." His voice is rough, upset, and it takes Slade a moment to figure out why. "I might hate you in the end. You might hate me." His hand shifts, trails up, over Slade's trembling stomach and his deathly still chest, taking his chin gently. 

He could fight. His first instinct _is_ to fight. Slade ignores it, and hopes he'll get to experience something different than all the other times, something that might make him ignore those instincts again. 

Clark meets his eyes. Blue somehow beating the odds to become a warm color, one that sets Slade's heart beating irregularly. His neck protests, caught in what should be an uncomfortable angle but Slade finds himself never having felt so comfortable. Seeing, and being seen, just this once. Just a little. 

"All I want is to give it a chance." Clark murmurs. "Doing it right." His thumb strokes over Slade's jaw, a pleasant sensation against his stubble. "You're not good at this, because I don't think you've ever had this, Slade. And that's okay with me." 

Slade leans into the touch as much as he's able. Still can't speak, when everything is far too raw and real, too close to the bone for Slade to ever say it like this. Staring into Clark's warm eyes, his forgiving face. The _loving_ curl of his mouth. 

Despite his silence, Clark's smile grows, like he hears it all the same. His mouth presses into Slade with excruciating care, nothing but warm lips against his and Slade has never found anything quite so innocent and maddening. "It's okay." Clark kisses him again, a hint of teeth that makes Slade shiver. "I can wait." 

"You'll be waiting until the end of your days." He mumbles, the words swallowed by Clark's breathless laugh. He's moved then by incredibly gentle hands considering how difficult it is to move him anywhere — settled on his back with Clark slotted on top of him like he belongs there, one thigh over his aching cock. 

A pleased rumble begins in Clark's chest, vibrating through Slade's, warming him inside and out. "You're saying I can stick around that long?"

"That's not—" He stutters, voice still thready and quiet. Goes silent when Clark's mouth tips up, amused and sleepy, his hair ruffled all kinds of ways and he's never looked less like Superman than right then, Slade decides. 

Never looked more like the man that Slade knows now, the one that lets him say things silently, and keeps his stupid fish safe, and still takes him back after Slade has proven, yet again, the kind of man he is. 

Somehow, Clark is relaxed. And it's not because of their imbalances, or the moral upper hand that he always seems to have. He just _is_ , looking down at Slade like a puzzle he's fond of solving, time and again. 

"Breakfast?" Clark asks lightly, eyes bright. A gentle way out if he ever saw one. A door out of the sharp, painful maze Slade has talked himself into this morning.

Slade blinks hard, aware of the wetness still at the corner of his eye. The annoying weight of his patch, which he's worn far too much lately. He's a little tired of it. A little tired of everything, nearly too exhausted to lift his hand and peel it off, cool air hitting often hidden skin and scar tissue. 

It's an ugly sight. The worst of all the things Slade has done, painted right there for everyone to see. He knows it inside and out, has felt every inch of it, and it sticks in his mind like an anchor. 

Clark studies the scarred place his eye used to be for one, two, three seconds. And then he studies Slade as a whole, head tilted and eyes soft. "Hey," Clark greets, like he's not seen Slade in such a long time, and he wants to hear that tone on repeat for days. Wants to feel that burst of warmth in his chest every time Clark looks at him. 

"Hey," Slade whispers. 

Clark's smile nearly splits his face. "So, what do you want for breakfast? Pretty sure I saw some energy bars in the vending machine." He waggles his eyebrows. "Could eat like kings." 

Slade snorts, despite the heavy weight of emotion in his chest. "You." He says. "I want you for breakfast, so get down here." 

Clark hums, a pleased noise that sinks right to Slade's cock, and kisses him slowly. 

It's not even close to being okay. But it's better than they were. Than they ever have been. And even if he can't say it, Slade's willing to try with the right motivation, Clark's hand slipping back into his boxers right on time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooof. Big thanks to kuro, kalech, and romi. Wouldn't have like... kept going at all without you guys. Ending on unlucky chapter 13, and that's just typical for these two. 
> 
> I'm extremely invested in these idiots, so expect a sequel in [checks watch] uhhhh.... some time in the future. They got a fish to raise, after all. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and kudos! Means the world to me!


End file.
